Skip to main content

Full text of "Fantasy & Science Fiction v031n06 (1966 12) (PDF)"

See other formats 


THE  MAGAZINE  OF 

Fantasy  and 


^ 1 1 »1  [ 1 

1 

(n!gra7t]!!»F 

i¥t 

■&«  fB 

■ * * ^ 
‘ ■ A • « 

1 >> 

fil  Tt;_.Jjk;  J 

NOVELETS 

Sabotage 

CHRISTOPHER  ANVIL  6 

Bumberboom 

AVRAM  DAVIDSON  96 

SHORT  STORIES 

The  Mystery  of  the  Purloined  Grenouilles 

GERALD  JONAS  39 

Doubting  Thomas 

THOMAS  M.  DISCH  43 

Von  Goom’s  Gambit 

VICTOR  CONTOSKI  66 

The  Green  Snow 

MIRIAM  ALLEN  DEFORD  71 

FEATURES 

Books 

JUDITH  MERRIL  30 

Cartoon 

GAHAN  WILSON  38 

The  Martian  Atmosphere 

TED  THOMAS  65 

The  Gods  (verse) 

t.  SPRAGUE  DE  CAMP  82 

Science:  The  Symbol-Minded  Chemist 

ISAAC  ASIMOV  83 

F&SF  Marketplace 

128 

Index  to  Volume  XXXI 

130 

Cover  by  Howard  Purcell,  illustrating  ^^Bumberboom*^  (see  p,  93) 

Joseph  W.  Ferman,  publisher 

Edward  L.  Ferman,  editor 

Ted  White,  assistant  editor 

Isaac  Asimov,  saENCE  editor 

Judith  Merril,  book  editor 

Robert  P.  Mills,  consulting  editor 

Dale  Beardale, 

CIRCULATION  MANAGER 

The  Magazine  of  Fantasy  and  Science  Fiction,  Volume  31,  No.  6,  Whole  No.  187,  Dec, 
1966.  Published  monthly  by  Mercury  Press,  Inc.,  at  50i^  a copy.  Annual  subscription  $5.00; 
$5.50  in  Canada  and  the  Pan  American  Union,  $6.00  in  all  other  countries.  Publicatio-n 
office,  10  Ferry  Street,  Concord,  N.  H.  03302.  Editorial  and  general  mail  should  be  sent 
to  347  East  53rd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.  10022.  Second  Class  postage  paid  at  Concord,  N.  H. 
Printed  in  U.S.A.  © 1966  by  Mercury  Press,  Inc.  All  rights  including  translations  into 
other  languages,  reserved.  Submissions  must  be  accompanied  by  stamped,  self-addressed 
envelopes;  the  Publisher  assumes  no  responsibility  for  return  of  unsolicited  manuscripts. 


$5.00  for  one  subscription 

(Your  own,  new  or  renewal,  or  first  gift) 

$9.00  for  two  subscriptions 
$3.50  each  additional  subscription 
Order  now— pay  in  January. 

No  additional  postage  for  U.S.  or  possessions.  Canada  or  Pan 
American  countries  $.50  per  year;  other  countries,  $1.00  per  year. 

THIS  SPECIAL  OFFER  EXPIRES  JANUARY  15,  1967 

Send  FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION  as  a Christmas  gift  to: 

Nome  

Address  

City State Zip 


Nome  

Address  

City State Zip 


FROM  

Address  

12-66 

City State Zip 

ENTER  my  own  subscription  □ new  □ renewal 
Check  one:  □ I enclose  $ ; □ Bill  me  after  Christmas 

Please  send  me  a gift  card  for  each  person  on  my  list— to  be 
personalized  with  my  own  signature  and  mailed  from  my  house. 

MERCURY  PRESS,  347  East  53  St.,  New  York,  N.Y.,  10022 


DOUBLEDAY 


NEBULA  AWARD 
STORIES  1965 

Edited  by  Damon  Knight 
There’s  everything  -from  jelly- 
beans to  a 30-story  Venusian 
sea  monster  in  these  four 
award-winning  stories  and  four 
distinguished  runners-up 
chosen  by  the  Science  Fiction 
Writers  of  America  as  the 
year's  tops.  Authors  included 
are  Roger  Zelazny,  Brian  W. 
Aldiss,  Harlan  Ellison,  J.  G.  Bal- 
lard, Gordon  Dickson,  Larry 
Niven,  and  James  H.  Schmitz. 

$4.95 

WATCHERS  OF  THE  DARK 

Lloyd  Biggie,  Jr. 

Jan  Darzek  gets  a million  dol- 
lars from  a mysterious  Mr.  Smith. 
His  assignment:  Identify  the  ter- 
rible power  that  has  laid  waste 
whole  planets,  reducing  their 
strange  inhabitants  to  wailing. 


starving  mobs.  By  one  of  SF’s 
best-known  writers.  $4.50 

SCIENCE  FICTION  FOR 
PEOPLE  WHO  HATE 
SCIENCE  FICTION 

Edited  by  Terry  Carr 
As  for  people  who  love  science 
fiction  — you'll  flip!  Nine  great 
stories  by  Ray  Bradbury,  Arthur 
C.  Clarke,  Damon  Knight,  Ed- 
mond Hamilton,  Wilmar  H. 
Shiras,  H.  L.  Gold,  Avram  David- 
son, Robert  A.  Heinlein,  and 
Frederic  Brown.  $3.95 

EARTHBLOOD 

Keith  Loumer  and 
Rosel  George  Brown 
The  year  is  13,000  A.D.  Tailed, 
scaled,  finned,  and  feathered 
monsters  and  humanoids  share 
the  universe  with  villainous  en- 
gines of  destruction  and  a few 
pure-strain  humans.  A galactic 
space-chase  that  will  have  you 
cheering.  $4.50 


At  all  booksellers 

•I  DOUBLEDAY 


Despite  the  increasing  importance  of  propaganda  and  psychology 
cal  icarfare,  mid-twentieth  century  conflict  is  still  overwhelmingly 

attuned  to  the  idea  that  the  only  good (fill-in-the-space)  is  a 

dead  one,  and  thus  to  the  concept  of  developing  more  effective 
killing  hardware.  The  combined  military  hardware  of  Earth  would 
surely  make  an  impressive  showing,  but  how  would  it  stand  up 
against  a purely  psychological  assault?  Here  is  a convincing  and 
suspenseful  story  of  one  battle  in  such  an  assault,  and  if  the  results 
are  bloodless  by  contemporary  standards,  they  are  certainly  no 
less  brutal. 


SABOTAGE 


by  Christopher  Anvil 


Major  richard  martin 
stopped  with  one  hand  on  the 
door  of  Colonel  Tyler's  office. 
From  inside  came  voices,  loud  and 
angry.  Martin  glanced  back  past 
Lieutenant  Schmidt  at  the  colo- 
nels pert,  shapely,  and  at  the  mo- 
ment somewhat  pale  receptionist. 
She  nodded  earnestly,  and  rolled 
her  eyes  toward  the  sky,  which  lay 
several  thousands  of  feet  up, 
through  the  layers  of  dirt,  con- 
crete, steel,  and  electronic  shield- 
ing equipment. 

Martin  braced  himself,  waited 
for  a pause  in  the  uproar  from  the 
colonel's  office,  tihen  knocked 
briskly  on  the  door. 

From  inside  came  a short  angry 
bark,  ''Come  iuT 


Martin  glanced  back  at  Lieu- 
tenant Schmidt — who  was  look- 
ing hungrily  at  the  pretty  recep- 
tionist— and  took  the  lieutenant 
by  the  arm. 

‘‘Follow  me,"  growled  Martin, 
and  shoved  open  the  colonel’s  door. 

The  scene  in  the  office  suggest- 
ed a pause  for  breath  in  a fistfight. 
Colonel  Tyler  was  to  one  side  of 
his  desk,  his  face  furious,  his  back 
half-turned  to  the  door,  and  a fold- 
ed paper  clenched  in  his  hand.  A 
second  colonel,  with  staflE  emblem 
at  his  collar,  stood  angrily  by  Ty- 
ler's big  wall  map,  one  hand 
stretched  out  to  bang  t^vo  groups 
of  little  whitely-glowing  emblems 
at  the  edge  of  the  map. 

“The  general,"  said  the  staff 


6 


SABOTAGE 


7 


colonel  tightly,  '‘is  extremely  anx- 
ious to  have  these  missing  Tamars 
located.’* 

Colonel  Tyler  glanced  around, 
saw  Martin,  and  relaxed  slightly. 
“Ah,  good,  there  you  are.**  Then 
he  frowned  at  Schmidt,  and 
looked  back  at  Martin  reprovingly. 
“This  is  only  for  combat-team 
commanders,  Major.** 

“I  know  it,  sir,**  said  Martin. 
“Lieutenant  Schmidt  is  here  on 
another  matter.** 

The  staflF  colonel,  standing  im- 
patiently by  the  map,  spoke 
brusquely.  “The  lieutenant  can 
wait  outside.  Major.” 

Martin  gripped  Schmidt*s  arm, 
and  looked  at  Colonel  Tyler.  “This 
is  a matter  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance, sir.** 

The  staff  colonel  said  sharply, 
“It  can  wait.  Get  him  outside.** 
Martin  continued  to  hold 
Schmid t*s  arm,  and  looked  direct- 
ly at  Colonel  Tyler. 

Colonel  Tyler  glanced  at  the 
staff  colonel.  “This  goddamned 
folderol  of  yours  will  keep.** 

'The  general — ** 

“Nuts!  Do  you  think  I don't 
want  to  find  those  missing  units?  I 
don't  need  your  damned  pep  talk!” 

“The  whole  situation  is  now 
critical — ” 

“ *CriticaVy*  snarled  Colonel 
Tyler.  “It’s  been  'critical*  since  the 
first  scout  ship  went  down  into 
their  damned  poisonous  atmos^ 
phere.  It’s  been  critical  since  our 
first  pilot  ran  into  a gasbag  and  got 


mindjammed  for  his  pains.  Criti- 
call  Do  you  think  it  wasn’t  critical 
when  they  had  the  commander  of 
the  Fifth  Fleet  lobbing  impulse 
torpedoes  into  his  own  base?  Was- 
n’t it  critical  when  we  found  the 
president  and  the  defense  secre- 
tary on  the  floor  choking  each  other 
and  neither  one  could  even  speak 
tin  we  got  him  under  a shield? 
And  that  was  just  their  first  blun- 
derings!  Criticall  If  you’d  get  your 
head  out  of  your  boot  for  about 
five  seconds,  you’d  see  it’s  been 
nothing  but  one  hairbreadth  criti- 
cal mess  since  that  first  stinking 
damned  critical  contact.” 

“AI/  right  r shouted  the  staff 
colonel.  “But  this  is  the  first  time 
we’ve  ever  seen  a chance  ahead  to 
put  them  out!  This  is  the  first  time 
we’ve  ever  been  anywhere  in  sight 
of  the  end\  You  simpleton!  Can’t 
you  see  that  this  poses  an  entirely 
new  situation?  Don’t  you  see  that 
these  new — ” 

Colonel  Tyler’s  eyes  gave  a lit- 
tle glint.  His  face  went  blank. 
“Colonel,  do  you  realize  you  are 
discussing  classified  information 
in  the  presence  of  an  officer  not 
cleared  to  hear  it?” 

The  staff  colonel  stopped 
abruptly  and  turned  to  stare  at  the 
lieutenant.  Martin  still  had  him 
by  the  arm,  and  he  was  still  right 
there  in  the  room. 

“Naturally,”  said  Colonel  Ty- 
ler, his  face  expressionless,  “I  will 
have  to  report  this  breach  of  regu- 
lations— which  has,  of  course. 


8 

taken  place  in  the  presence  of  two 
witnesses.  Take  your  papers  out- 
side, please,  and  wait  in  the  outer 
office." 

The  staflF  colonel  looked  around 
dazedly,  stared  at  Lieutenant 
Schmidt,  started  to  speak,  took  an- 
other look  at  Colonel  Tyler,  who 
was  watching  him  with  a flinty 
expression,  swallowed,  took  a long 
envelope  from  Colonel  Tylers 
desk,  and  the  folded  paper  that 
Colonel  Tyler  had  tossed  down 
there,  and  went  out. 

Colonel  Tyler  snapped  on  the 
intercom.  “Sergeant  Dana?" 

“Sir?"  came  the  girls  pleasant 
voice. 

“Colonel  Burnett  wishes  to  wait 
in  the  outer  office.  This  is  perfect- 
ly agreeable  with  me." 

“Yes,  sir." 

“But  if  he  leaves,  for  any  reason, 
let  me  know  immediately." 

“Yes,  sir." 

Colonel  Tyler  snapped  off  the 
intercom,  and  glanced  at  Schmidt, 
then  at  Martin. 

“Now,  Major,  what  is  the  cause 
of  this  interruption?" 

“Sir,  we  think  we  may  have  lo- 
cated the  missing  enemy  units." 

Tyler's  face  was  immediately 
all  attention.  He  listened  intently 
as  Martin  and  Schmidt  explained. 
Then  he  picked  up  his  phone,  gave 
a few  brief  orders,  put  the  phone 
back  in  its  cradle,  and  snapped 
on  the  intercom. 

“Ask  Colonel  Burnett  if  he'll 
step  back  in  here  for  a moment." 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

“Yes,  Sir." 

Colonel  Tyler  glanced  at  Mar- 
tin. “As  soon  as  we  get  this  out  of 
the  way,  Til  want  the  rest  of  the 
details." 

“Yes,  sir." 

The  staff  colonel,  perspiring 
freely,  came  back  in.  Colonel  Ty- 
ler looked  at  him  clinically,  then 
glanced  at  Lieutenant  Schmidt. 
“Fd  appreciate  it  if  you’d  step  out- 
side for  a few  minutes.  Lieuten- 
ant." 

“Yes,  sir."  Schmidt  went  out. 

Colonel  Tyler  glanced  at  the 
staff  colonel. 

“Three  of  my  combat-team  com- 
manders are  on  the  surface,  risk- 
ing their  necks  for  a population 
that  doesn’t  even  know  they  exist. 
One  of  my  other  commanders  is  on 
standby  reserve  and  totally  worn 
out.  I won’t  call  him  in  here  un- 
less the  general  himself  personally 
and  specifically  orders  it.  Now, 
you  want  all  combat-team  com- 
manders to  attend  this  so-called 
briefing.  Well,  Major  Martin  here 
was  on  the  surface  the  day  before 
yesterday,  has  had  no  real  oppor- 
tunity to  rest,  and  is  up  to  his  ears 
in  work.  He  may  have  to  leave  any 
time.  But  Hfe’s  here.  This  is  the 
best  I can  do  for  you.  Colonel,  and 
I’ll  tell  you  flatly  that  I think 
you’re  wasting  our  time.  Now  go 
ahead  with  your  damned  talk." 

Colonel  Burnett  swallowed 
hard,  then  held  out  the  folded  pa- 
per that  Colonel  Tyler  had  been 
gripping  when  Martin  came  in. 


SABOTAGE 


9 


‘'Read  this,  Major,  then  sign  it 
on  the  back/* 

Martin  took  the  paper,  and 
read: 

URGENT:  Six  Tamar  penetra- 
tion units  still  remain  unlocated 
following  disappearance  from 
Sector  II.  Three  units  vanished 
from  Plot  fourteen  months  ago. 
Another  block  of  three  vanished 
five  months  ago.  All  six  still  re- 
main oflF-plot.  Past  experience  in- 
dicates enemy  penetration  of  vital 
target  area  is  proceeding  unop- 
posed. All  personnel  are  urgently 
required  to  exercise  maximum  dili- 
gence and  ingenuity  to  locate 
these  missing  enemy  units  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment. 

The  message  was  signed  by  the 
"Commanding  General  NARD- 
COM  STRIKE  Field  Force  I.” 
Stamped  across  the  top  and  bot- 
tom were  the  words,  "Deliver  by 
Hand — Endorse  and  Return  to 
CG  FFI." 

Martin  turned  the  paper  over 
and  signed  his  name  under  Colo- 
nel Tyler  s rapidly-scrawled  signa- 
ture. Martin  was  already  familiar 
with  the  facts  in  the  paper,  so,  as 
Colonel  Tyler  had  said,  it  was  just 
so  much  wasted  time.  Martin 
handed  the  paper  back  to  Colonel 
Burnett. 

Colonel  Burnett  glanced  at 
Martin’s  signature,  then  drew  a 
long  envelope  from  an  inside 
pocket,  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Now,  gentlemen,  this  docu- 
ment is — **  his  voice  dropped  in 


reverence — "the  latest  StafiE  Eval- 
uation.” 

Martin  waited  patiently.  Colo- 
nel Tyler  irritatedly  glanced  at 
the  clock. 

Burnett  went  on.  "This  docu- 
ment may  not  be  read  aloud.  Its 
contents  may  not  be  copied.  The 
information  it  contains  may  not 
be  transferred  in  any  way  from 
any  one  person  who  has  read  it  to 
another  who  has  not.  It  may  be 
discussed  only  in  conditions  of 
maximum  security,  under  full 
shield,  and  only  in  the  presence 
— ” his  voice  faltered — "of  those 
fully  qualified  to  read  it  them- 
selves. Read  it,  initial  each  page, 
and  endorse  it  on  the  back  of  the 
final  page.”  He  handed  it  to  Colo- 
nel Tyler,  who  looked  it  over,  in 
the  manner  of  one  already  familiar 
with  the  contents,  scribbled  his 
initials  page-by-page  and  wrote 
his  name  on  the  back. 

Colonel  Tyler  handed  it  to 
Martin,  then  glanced  back  at  the 
staff  colonel,  Burnett. 

"You’d  have  less  trouble  getting 
these  things  read,  if  you’d  have 
your  experts  translate  them  into 
some  language  known  to  humans.” 

Martin  was  looking  at  the  first 
section  of  the  paper : 

"1)  The  state  of  conflict  cur- 
rently existing  between  the  hu- 
man-controlled space  military- 
socioeconomic  complex  centering 
on  the  planet  Earth  and  the  psy- 
chologically-oriented culture  of 
the  planet  Tamar  VI  (Code  146- 


10 

BL110101-976bA14-Ragan)  is, 
in  the  presently  existing  stage  of 
hostilities,  entering  upon  a crucial 
phase  requiring  of  all  controlling 
personnel  the  highest  degree  of 
operative  vigilance  consonant 
with  the  attainment  of  previously- 
assigned  overriding  primary  objec- 
tives/' 

Martin  read  this  over  again, 
shook  his  head,  and  started  again 
at  the  beginning.  Then  he  slowly 
read  it  all  the  way  through,  break- 
ing it  down  as  he  went : 

1)  The  w^ar  against  Tamar  VI 
is  now  entering  a crucial  phase,  in 
which  the  highest  vigilance  will  be 
required. 

2)  Essentially,  this  war  is  one 
of  technology  versus  a species  of 
mental  accomplishment  which 
can  only  be  described  as  the  pow- 
er of  telepathic  assault  and  posses- 
sion. 

3)  There  are  two  main  thea- 
ters of  operation,  very  widely  sepa- 
rated. These  are  the  home  planets 
of  the  two  opposed  races.  We  are 
able  physically  to  cross  the  inter- 
vening space  to  strike  at  the  Ta- 
mar ^ 'ine  planet.  They  are  able  to 
bridge  this  space  psychologically 
to  strike  at  our  home  planet.  Either 
side  can  attack  the  other  offensive- 
ly. Neither  side  has  a truly  effec- 
tive defense, 

4)  Our  basic  war  plan  re- 
mains : 

a)  Offense:  Attack  by  nuclear 
and  subnuclear  explosives  against 
the  Tamar  home  planet. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

b)  Defense:  Countermeasures 
to  neutralize  or  recapture  strategi- 
cally-placed individuals  overcome 
by  Tamar  psychological  penetra- 
tion. 

5)  VV^e  continue  under  severe 
immediate  handicaps : 

a)  Offense:  Tamar  VI  is  a 
giant  planet,  its  atmosphere  dense, 
heavily  clouded,  and  corrosive. 
The  precise  nature  of  most  of  the 
planet's  structure  and  inhabitants 
remains  obscure.  Attack  is  thus 
difficult  to  plan  or  evaluate. 

b)  Defense:  Because  of  the 
cost  of  the  complex  electronic 
shielding  equipment,  the  bulk  of 
Earth’s  population  remains  ex- 
posed to  Tamar  psychological  at- 
tack. As  each  Tamar  penetration 
unit  can  attack  only  one  individ- 
ual at  a time,  as  each  such  attack 
takes  time,  and  as  only  several 
hundred  Tamar  penetration  units 
are  known  to  exist,  the  population 
as  a whole,  while  completely  ex- 
posed, appears  safe  from  direct  as- 
sault. However,  to  avoid  panic,  the 
public  has  not  been  informed  of 
this  attack  and  believes  the  war  to 
be  confined  to  the  region  of  the 
Tamar  home  planet  itself.  Be- 
cause of  this  secrecy,  defensive  op- 
erations must  be  financed  through 
contingency  funds  and  by  other 
irregular  means.  This  seriously 
hampers  operations. 

6)  The  basic  war  plan,  as 
stated,  relies  on  continued  block- 
ing of  the  Tamar  attack,  with  ulti- 
mate victory  to  be  won  by  assault 


SABOTAGE 


11 


against  the  Tamar  home  planet 
Toward  this  end,  the  present  force 
of  Class  III  long-range  battleships 
operating  off  Tamar  VI  is  soon  to 
be  strengthened  by  the  far  more 
powerful  planetary  bombardment 
ships  Revenge  and  Killer. 

7)  Owing,  however,  to  the  skill 
of  the  defensive  force  of  Ta- 
mar penetration  units  operating 
against  our  fleet,  this  attack  is  not 
expected  to  be  decisive.  These  lo- 
cal Tamar  units  not  only  attack 
unshielded  personnel,  but  have 
also  learned  to  unbalance  the 
most  advanced  electronic  comput- 
ing equipment,  with  catastrophic 
results.  This  equipment  must 
either  be  shielded,  or  else  replaced 
where  feasible  by  mechanical,  hy- 
draulic, pneumatic,  or  other  types 
of  computing  equipment.  This,  to- 
gether with  the  demonstrated  en- 
emy capacity  to  overload,  at  times, 
all  but  the  niost  powerful  ship- 
borne  shields,  makes  the  final  re- 
sult of  our  present  attack  uncer- 
tain. 

8)  Two  interstellar-drive  de- 
vices, known  respectively  as  Fuse 
and  Match,  are  therefore  under 
construction.  Use  of  these  devices 
on  Tamar  VI  is  scheduled  for 
thirty-two  months  from  date,  and 
is  expected  to  create  a subnuclear 
detonation  in  the  planet's  interior. 
It  is  doubtful  that  the  planet  can 
survive  such  an  explosion. 

9)  It  follows  that  enemy  ac- 
tivity should  be  terminated  by  the 
end  of  the  next  thirty-two  months. 


10)  Granting  the  psychologi- 
cal powers  of  the  Tamar  and  their 
known  ruthlessness,  it  is  incon- 
ceivable that  the  enemy  will  sub- 
mit to  destruction  without  cunning 
and  extremely  dangerous  resist- 
ance. It  is  necessary,  therefore,  to 
maintain  secrecy  regarding  these 
and  other  measures.  Moreover,  as 
our  own  physical  measures  ap- 
proach completion,  there  is  every 
reason  to  guard  against  new  and 
more  refined  Tamar  psychological 
measures. 

11)  Past  experience  shows  the 
practical  impossibility  of  mean- 
ingful two-way  communication 
with  the  Tamars  or  of  creating 
even  a temporary  truce.  Cultural 
analysis,  though  necessarily  high- 
ly uncertain,  suggests  that  the 
Tamar  view  of  the  universe  must 
be  basically  at  variance  with  that 
of  humanity.  In  this  view,  there  is 
no  true  common  frame  of  reference 
and  hence  no  way  out  by  means  of 
a truce. 

12)  We  must,  therefore,  regard 
the  next  thirty-two  months  as  an 
extremely  critical  and  dangerous 
period. 

Martin  duly  initialed  each  page 
and  signed  his  name  on  the  back. 
He  handed  the  paper  to  Colonel 
Tyler,  who  handed  it  back  to  the 
staff  colonel,  Burnett,  and  said, 
"Is  that  it?" 

"Yes." 

Colonel  Tyler  reached  for  the 
phone. 

The  staff  colonel  looked  acute- 


12 

ly  uneasy.  *'Ah — about  what  I said 
earlier — '' 

Colonel  Tyler  said  coldly,  “I 
hope  you  aren’t  about  to  suggest 
anything  contrary  to  regulations. 
Colonel.” 

Colonel  Burnett  shut  his  mouth 
and  looked  blank. 

Colonel  Tyler  picked  up  the 
phone. 

Burnett  said  anxiously,  “I’m 
sure  I didn’t — ” 

Tyler  put  the  phone  back  in  its 
cradle  but  kept  his  hand  on  it. 

“I  didn’t  make  the  regulations, 
but  I have  to  live  by  them.  In  the 
hearing  of  Lieutenant  Schmidt, 
who  was  not  cleared  to  receive  the 
information,  you  stated  authori- 
tatively that  we  now,  for  the  first 
time,  are  in  a position  to  see  the 
end  of  the  war.  As  a matter  of  fact. 
Lieutenant  Schmidt  is  no  more 
likely  than  Major  Martin  or  I to 
blab  this  information.  But  the 
regulations  are  perfectly  clear.” 

“But  I’d  ordered  the  lieutenant 
to  get  out!  I — ” 

“You  knew  Major  Martin  was 
holding  him  here.  Were  you  try- 
ing to  induce  the  lieutenant  to  dis- 
obey his  OAvn  commanding  officer? 
Or  were  you  trying  to  block 
both  of  my  officers  from  reporting 
to  me  on  a matter  of  the  utmost 
urgency?  And  what  the  devil  are 
you  doing  now — trying  to  get  me 
to  join  you  in  concealing  the  of- 
ense?” 

The  staff  colonel  opened  his 
mouth,  shut  it,  and  swallowed. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

Colonel  Tyler  picked  up  the 
phone,  and  spoke  into  it  briefly  and 
pointedly.  Then  he  put  the  phone 
back  in  its  cradle. 

There  was  a strained  silence 
that  lasted  for  possibly  two  min- 
utes. Then  there  was  a rap  on  the 
door. 

“Come  in,”  said  Colonel  Tyler. 

Six  spotlessly-uniformed  MB's, 
two  of  them  armed  with  subma- 
chine guns,  came  in  and  very  po- 
litely escorted  the  staff  colonel 
out  of  the  office. 

Colonel  Tyler  glanced  at  Mar- 
tin. “Get  Schmidt  in  here.” 

Martin  stepped  into  the  outer 
office  to  find  Lieutenant  Schmidt 
talking  in  a low  voice  to  the  smil- 
ing Sergeant  Dana. 

Martin  said,  “Schmidt.” 

“Yes,  sir.  Just  a moment,  sir.** 

Martin  stepped  back  into  the 
colonel’s  office.  Outside,  he  could 
hear  the  girl  say  something,  then 
Schmidt  say  something.  Then  the 
lieutenant,  looking  bemused  but 
hopeful,  stepped  into  the  office, 
and  Martin  shut  the  door. 

Colonel  Tyler  glanced  at 
Schmidt’s  face,  and  cleared  his 
throat.  “Lieutenant,  this  informa- 
tion of  yours  is  interesting.  Let’s 
go  over  it  again,  and  get  the  de- 
tails.” 

‘Tes,  sir.” 

“To  begin  with,  you  got  a three- 
day  pass  to  the  surface?” 

“Yes,  sir.  To  visit  my — my  giri, 
sir.” 

“But  she  wasn’t  very  friendly?” 


SABOTAGE 


13 


“Well — it  seemed,  at  least,  that 
it  wasn’t  she  so  much  as  her  moth- 
er, sir.  You  see,  I have  a cover  job, 
as  a traveling  salesman  selling  sets 
of  encyclopedias.  The  mother 
thinks  this  is  pretty  feeble  stufiF 
and  wants  her  daughter  to  find 
somebody  with  better  prospects.” 

The  colonel  nodded  sympathet- 
ically. 

Schmidt  said,  “I’ve  known  Ja- 
nice’s family  for  a long  time,  but 
apparently  they’d  decided  they 
didn’t  know  me,  so  this  time  the 
mother  went  to  work  with  a string 
of  questions.  I think  I might  have 
gotten  through  this,  but  as  it  hap- 
pened, I was  worn  out  from  that 
mess  at  the  pow^r  station,  and  I 
kept  losing  the  drift  of  the  argu- 
ment. Well,  right  on  the  hassock 
near  the  couch  where  I was  sitting, 
while  she  shot  these  questions  at 
me,  was  a newspaper.  The  head- 
line kept  staring  me  in  the  face: 
PENNSY  A-BLAST  AVERTED. 
I kept  wondering  how  the  thing 
had  looked  from  the  outside.  So, 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  ha- 
rangue, with  her  telling  me  how 
serious  life  is,  I picked  up  the  pa- 
per and  started  to  read.  That  did 
it.” 

Colonel  Tyler  smiled.  “If  you'd 
like  us  to  rig  up  some  better  cov- 
er— ” 

'Thank  you,  sir,  but  I don't 
think  so.  Janice  could  have 
stopped  this  third  degree  any  time, 
but  she  sat  through  the  whole 
thing,  listening  carefully.  I got 


the  impression  that  maybe  her 
mother  was  just  asking  the  ques- 
tions for  her  anyway.  Some  of 
them  were  rough  questions,  but 
Janice  didn’t  say  anything  on  my 
side. — That’s  enough  for  me.” 

The  colonel  nodded.  “What  did 
you  do  then?” 

“Well,  I found  myself  in  the 
road  in  front  of  the  house.  I should 
have  felt  low,  but  as  a matter  of 
fact  I was  too  tired.  I still  had  my 
pass,  and  I didn’t  know  what  to 
do  with  it.  I could  have  gone 
home,  but  there  was  no  future  in 
that.  At  home,  they’re  all  sorrow- 
ful and  pitying,  except  for  my  kid 
sister.  Well,  for  lack  of  anything 
else,  I walked  down  to  the  news- 
stand, got  a paper  with  this  story 
about  “PENNSY  A-BLAST 
AVERTED”  in  it,  and  read  that. 
Some  college  students  came  in, 
and  I got  the  idea  to  go  see  the  old 
place  again.”  Schmidt  scowled, 
and  the  colonel  leaned  forward 
intently. 

“Goon.” 

"Well,  this  is  a little  hard  to 
explain,  sir.  I've  gone  back  before, 
you  see,  and  I’ve  felt  like  some 
kind  of  ghost.  The  place  was  the 
same,  but  the  faces  were  different, 
and  I didn’t  fit  in  anywhere.  This 
time  it  wasn’t  that  way.” 

Martin  was  listening  closely, 
and  the  colonel  was  leaning  for- 
ward, his  gaze  intent. 

“You  noticed  something  wrong, 
is  that  it?” 

“Not  exactly  wrong,  sir. 


14 

Strange.  The  trouble  was,  I was 
worn-out,  and  Fm  afraid  I wasn't 
too  observant.  The  first  thing  that 
seemed  odd  was  that  a student  Fd 
never  seen  before  turned  to  me  in 
a matter-of-fact  way  and  said, 
*Man,  I can't  take  much  more  of 
this,  can  you?  I mean,  what's  the 
point  of  everything?  Why  both- 
erT  " 

The  colonel  said,  'This  was  as 
you  were  walking  toward  the  col- 
lege?" 

"No,  sir,  I was  just  leaving  the 
newsstand." 

"What  did  you  say  to  him?" 

"The  remark  fit  my  mood,  and  I 
agreed.  But  then  I wondered  what 
he  was  talking  about  By  that 
time,  we  were  slowly  walking  to- 
ward the  college.  As  I say,  I was 
tired.  So  was  he.  He  seemed  ta  be 
barely  able  to  drag  himself  along. 
After  a while,  he  said,  'I  mean, 
what  is  the  use?'  Well,  I didn't 
know  what  he  was  talking  about, 
but  it  wasn't  too  far  from  how  I 
felt,  so  I said,  ‘I  know  what  you 
mean.'  We  dragged  on  up  the  hill, 
and  pretty  soon  it  developed  we 
were  headed  for  different  places. 
He  said  'See  you,'  and  I said, 
'Yeah.' " 

"These  were  the  only  com- 
ments?" 

"Yes,  sir.  By  itself,  it  didn't 
mean  much.  But  on  the  way  up 
the  hill,  maybe  half-a-dozen  more 
men  students  passed  us  going 
down  in  the  other  direction.  Ev- 
ery one  of  them  looked  as  full  of 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

pep  and  spirit  as  if  he'd  just  been 
hit  in  the  stomach.  A girl  came 
out  the  gate  just  as  I went  in,  and 
she  looked  as  if  she'd  long  since 
given  up  hope  in  everything.  Well, 
I went  on  in,  it  was  the  change  of 
classes,  and — " He  shook  his  head. 
"I  can't  describe  it.  But  I had  a 
little  playback  camera  with  me — 
Fd  started  out  thinking  Fd  take 
some  pictures  of  Janice — and  I 
took  some  shots  of  the  college  in- 
stead." 

"Do  you  have  tlie  camera  with 
you?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I — **  He  reddened 
slightly.  "Ah,  I seem  to  have  left 
it  in  the  outer  office,  sir.  If  I could 

if 

"Go  right  ahead." 

The  lieutenant  went  out.  The 
colonel  glanced  quizzically  at 
Martin,  who  smiled  and  said 
nothing. 

Outside,  there  was  a murmured 
masculine  comment,  a quiet  femi- 
nine laugh,  and  then  Schmidt 
was  back,  carrying  a small  leather 
case.  He  handed  it  to  the  colonel, 
who  slid  the  camera  out  of  the 
case,  pulled  out  the  two  extension 
eyepieces,  made  sure  the  lever  was 
at  "P"  for  "playback,"  then  looked 
into  the  eyepieces. 

Martin,  watching,  could  re- 
member the  recorded  scenes  vivid- 
ly. The  first  showed  a very  pretty 
girl  walking  slowly  toward  him 
past  a group  of  students.  The  girl 
had  a dazed  look,  and  her  face 
was  streaked,  as  if  from  tears.  She 


SABOTAGE 


15 


passed  three  unshaven  male  stu- 
dents sitting  on  the  steps  of  the 
building.  She  was  a very  pretty 
girl.  The  three  male  students  sat 
with  their  heads  in  their  hands 
and  stared  dully  across  the  campus 
as  she  passed. 

There  was  a stretch  of  pale 
transparency  in  the  film,  then  a 
shot  of  a large  group  of  intermin- 
gled students  drifting  listlessly 
across  the  campus.  When  they 
went  by,  they  left  behind,  here 
and  there,  an  eraser,  a pencil,  or  a 
slide  rule,  that  someone  or  other 
had  dropped,  and  that  no  one 
bothered  to  pick  up. 

There  was  another  stretch  of 
transparency,  then  a view  of  a tall, 
drearily  trudging  student  with  a 
three-day  beard,  partly  shaven  so 
that  the  better  part  of  one  side  of 
his  face  showed  a less  pronounced 
beard,  and  with  about  two  square 
inches  of  that  side  again  partly 
shaved,  as  if  he  tried  to  shave  on 
successive  days  but  each  time  had 
given  it  up. 

Several  other  scenes  showed 
more  of  the  same  thing — listless, 
dispirited  men  or  girls,  trudging 
singly  or  in  groups  across  the 
campus. 

Colonel  Tyler  ran  the  scenes 
through  again,  then  carefully  put 
down  the  camera,  and  glanced  at 
Schmidt. 

'The  whole  school  was  like 
this?” 

"All  that  I saw  of  it,  rir — that 
is,  the  students.  I don't  know 


about  the  faculty  or  the  adminis- 
tration.” 

“How  was  the  rest  of  the  town?” 

“Here  and  there,  the  atmosphere 
was  odd,  as  if  people  were  won- 
dering why  they  bothered,  any- 
way. But  there  was  no  other  place 
where  it  was  as  bad  as  the  col- 
lege.” 

“And  the  students  you  saw  off- 
campus  were  the  same?” 

‘Tes,  sir.  All  the  ones  I saw.” 

“Do  you  have  any  idea  what  s 
behind  it?” 

“No,  sir.  Except  that  there’s  ob- 
viously something  unnatural  go- 
ing on.  And  the  Tamars  have  hit 
schools  before,  from  different  an- 
gles.” 

Colonel  Tyler  nodded  thought- 
fully, handed  the  camera  back  to 
the  lieutenant,  and  glanced  brief- 
ly at  Martin. 

“What's  your  theory  about  this?” 

“Only  that  the  Tamars  are  be- 
hind it,  sir.  How  and  why  are 
something  else  again.” 

The  colonel  glanced  at  the  wall 
map  of  the  continent,  with  its  tiny 
glowing  dots  of  many  colors  and 
the  groups  of  white  dots  at  the 
edge  representing  enemy  penetra- 
tion units  that  had  been  lost  and 
had  not  yet  been  relocated. 

“As  for  Tiow,'  ” he  said,  “with 
six  units  out  of  the  eighty  they 
normally  assign  to  this  continent, 
they  have  power  enough  to  make 
plenty  of  trouble,  though  it's  a 
good  question  just  how  they  do 
it”  He  glanced  back  at  Schmidt. 


16 

'‘All  you  found  out  is  shown  on 
that  film?" 

"Yes,  sir.  At  the  time,  it  all 
seemed  strange  to  me,  but  I was 
about  knocked  out,  myself,  and 
didn't  reahze  what  it  might  mean. 
I just  went  home  and  put  in  the 
rest  of  the  three-day  pass  getting 
caught  up  on  sleep.  1 didn't  think 
of  the  Tamars  till  I got  rested  up, 
and  then  it  was  time  to  come 
back." 

The  colonel  nodded,  and  said 
thoughtfully,  "As  for  rvhy  they'd 
do  this— " 

The  phone  rang.  He  picked  it 
up  and  said,  "Colonel  Tyler,"  and 
hstened.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "1  see. 
You  think  it  is  worth  our  atten- 
tion, then?  ...  yes  ...  yes 
. . , then  this  is  completely  new 
to  you,  too?  . . . yes  . . . okay, 
Sam.  Thanks.  Good-by."  He  put 
the  phone  back,  and  smiled.  "Well, 
gentlemen.  Reconnaissance  agrees 
with  us.  They  don't  have  any  bet- 
ter idea  what's  going  on  there  than 
we  do,  and  of  course  they’ve  had 
no  time  to  do  a thorough  check. 
But  they  sent  a team  out  there  with 
the  new  portable  snoopers  about 
ten  minutes  ago,  and  the  reading 
went  right  off  the  end  of  the  scale." 
The  colonel  beamed.  "We’ve  found 
them,  gentlemen.  And  tomorrow 
we'll  go  in  and  take  them  out.  For 
now,  rest  up  and  check  your 
equipment." 

Resting  up,  for  Martin,  meant 
leaving  his  desk,  where  the  official 
forms  were  piled  high  in  the  IN 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

basket,  and  heading  for  his  apart- 
ment. Martin's  apartment  was 
scaled  to  fit  the  needs  of  an  or- 
ganization that  had  its  funds  fun- 
neled  to  it  secretly  and  that  had 
to  spend  much  of  these  funds  on 
expensive  shielding  equipment. 
The  apartment  had  bedroom,  bath- 
room, kitchenette,  and  a room  jok- 
ingly referred  to  as  the  "living- 
dining” room.  The  whole  works 
fitted  inside  a space  about  fifteen 
feet  on  a side.  The  living-dining 
room  was  about  six  feet  square  and 
equipped  with  two  straight-back 
chairs,  a folding  card  table,  and  a 
TV  set  that  was  fed  canned  pro- 
grams through  a cable.  Anyone 
with  a tendency  to  claustrophobia 
soon  imagined  that  the  walls  were 
starting  to  close  in  on  him.  As 
both  of  the  hatch-like  doors  to  the 
room  opened  inward,  nearly  met 
in  the  center,  and  were  hung  from 
the  same  side  on  walls  that  faced 
each  other,  this  illusion  had  an 
unpleasant  habit  of  coming  true. 
The  kitchenette  was  a little  larg- 
er, but  with  more  equipment 
crammed  into  it.  The  bathroom 
was  smaller  yet.  The  only  room 
where  Wo  individuals  could  shut 
the  doors  and  simultaneously 
draw  a breath  without  making 
their  eardrums  pop  was  the  bed- 
room. The  bedroom  was  large 
enough  to  move  around  in.  The 
ventilator  grille  opened  into  it, 
incidentally  providing  the  source 
for  eerie  whispering  sounds  that 
echoed  through  the  room  all  night 


SABOTAGE 


17 


Martin  shared  this  apartment 
with  his  second-in-command,  a 
burly  captain  by  the  name  of 
Burns.  Right  now,  Burns  was 
stretched  out  flat  on  his  cot,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head, 
his  eyes  shut,  and  a look  of  weary 
exasperation  on  his  face. 

'"Same  damned  thing  as  al- 
ways,"' he  was  saying.  “Fall  all 
over  ourselves  in  a desperate  rush 
for  six  weeks,  till  the  men  drop  in 
their  tracks,  and  you  catch  your- 
self staring  at  your  hand  to  try 
and  remember  if  you're  on  duty  or 
oflF — and  then  Recon  loses  the 
bastards,  and  for  the  next  six 
weeks  there's  nothing  to  do  but 
run  through  drills  and  fill  out 
forms.  And  then — Whatni  Recon 
catches  hold  again,  and  we're  back 
on  the  treadmill." 

“It  wasn't  Reconnaissance  this 
time,"  said  Martin.  “Schmidt  ran 
into  it  on  a three-day  pass." 

Burns  opened  his  eyes. 

“You  mean  he  bumped  into  it 
by  accident?" 

"Exactly." 

"How  did  that  happen?" 

"His  girl  axed  him,  and  he 
found  himself  with  time  on  his 
hands.  He  wandered  back  to  his 
old  college,  which  was  in  the 
same  town,  and  ran  into  a funny 
set-up."  Martin  described  it,  and 
Bums  sat  up,  frowning. 

"Apathy,  huh?  Well — what  of 
it?  I can't  see  the  Tamars  wasting 
six  units  on  that." 

Martin  opened  his  locker, 


pulled  out  a bolstered  automatic, 
and  set  it  on  his  cot. 

“They  may  not  have  the  whole 
six  units  on  it.  We  don’t  know  yet 
just  what  they’ve  got  on  it.” 

Burns  nodded,  got  up,  and  went 
to  his  locker.  “I  still  don’t  get  their 
point." 

“Neither  do  I,"  said  Martin. 
“But  they’re  there.  It  follows  that 
there’s  trouble  for  us  in  it  some- 
where." 

Carefully,  Martin  took  from  his 
locker  a small,  olive-colored  belt 
case  with  two  short  wires  attached, 
then  a helmet  with  a slightly-flat- 
tened bulge  in  front,  and  a little 
white  box  made  of  opaque  plastic. 
One-by-one,  he  set  them  on  the 
cot  beside  the  gun. 

Burns  said  exasperatedly, 
"What's  the  use  of  making  a col- 
lege full  of  apathetic  students?  So 
what?  How  does  that  hurt  our  war 
effort?  The  Tamar  haven’t  got  so 
many  penetration  units  they  can 
afford  to  do  things  for  the  fun  of 
it."  He  frowned  suddenly,  and 
said,  ‘Teah,  but  on  the  other  hand 
— how  did  they  do  it?” 

Martin  sat  down  on  his  cot  and 
began  disassembling  the  gun. 
“Now  you're  on  the  right  track." 

"How  many  students  in  this  col- 
ege?" 

"Over  a thousand." 

"And  they've  all  had  the  spirit 
knocked  out  of  them?” 

"All  Schmidt  saw." 

Bums  swore.  ‘The  gasbags 
must  have  hit  the  jackpot  this 


18 

time.  They’re  always  trying  for 
some  kind  of  leverage,  or  some 
multiplier  e£Eect.  Something  to 
overcome  the  fact  that  we  have 
greater  numbers  than  their  pene- 
tration teams  can  handle  directly.” 

Carefully,  Martin  cleaned  ihe 
disassembled  gun.  ‘They’ve  got  a 
multiplier  efiFect  this  time.” 

Burns  thought  it  over,  frown- 
ing, then  said,  “I  suppose  it  fits 
their  usual  method.  If  they  can, 
they  like  best  to  get  control  of  peo- 
ple in  key  positions.  If  they  can’t 
do  that,  then  they  try  to  get  some- 
one who  will  be  in  a key  position, 
later.  Like  that  Space  Academy 
mess.** 

Martin  lightly  oiled  the  parts, 
and  reassembled  the  gun.  “That 
one  was  ideal,  from  their  view- 
point, all  right.” 

“Sure.  Crack  a few  selected  in- 
structors, and  then  feed  the  false 
information  directly  to  the  future 
officers.  Then,  when  they  are  offi- 
cers, they’ll  make  dangerous  mis- 
takes. We  were  lucky  to  break  that 
up  before  they  wrecked  us.” 

Martin  slid  the  gun  back  into 
its  holster.  “Still,  the  actual  multi- 
plier factor  there  wasn’t  up  to  this 
one.  And  the  cadets  they  sabotaged 
. — despite  the  hypnotic  effect  of 
the  Tamars — were  only  hurt  in 
one  category  of  their  knowledge. 
This  present  thing  seems  to  strike 
not  at  a man’s  knowledge,  but  at 
his  spirit.  When  a man’s  spirit  is 
deadened,  all  his  knowledge  is 
more  or  less  useless.” 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

Burns  finished  cleaning  and 
oiling  his  own  gun,  and,  like  Mar- 
tin, next  checked  the  working  of  a 
small  switch  recessed  just  under 
the  edge  of  his  helmet.  ‘Tes,  I see 
what  you  mean.  But  I don’t  see 
how  they  do  that.  Always  before, 
the  individual  they  succeeded  in 
capturing  was  either  used  directly 
— say  to  give  a disastrous  order — 
or  else,  if  he  was  an  instructor,  he 
was  used  to  drive  home  some  dan- 
gerous piece  of  false  knowledge.  A 
man  may  be  made  to  believe,  for 
instance,  that  hydrogen  sulfide 
gas  has  an  evil  smell,  but  still  isn’t 
poisonous.  This  is  false  knowl- 
edge. It’s  dangerous.  But  it  won’t 
dispirit  a man.  The  Tamars  can 
teach  carefully  selected  bits  of 
false  knowledge.  They  can  do  it 
without  departing  too  much  from 
the  school’s  standard  routine. 
Maybe  no  one  will  notice.  But 
how  do  they  teach  apathy}** 

“I  don’t  know.”  Frowning,  Mar- 
tin opened  the  small  white  case 
and  took  out  a thing  like  a dental 
bridge,  with  two  little  stainless 
steel  arms  that  held  a dark  red  cap- 
sule. He  slid  it  into  his  mouth, 
fitted  it  carefully  to  a lower  molar, 
touched  it  with  his  tongue,  moved 
the  capsule,  and  felt  it  swing  up 
and  over  to  rest  on  the  biting  sur^ 
face  of  the  tooth.  Then,  carefully, 
he  removed  the  device. 

“Not  only,”  he  said,  “feotr  do 
they  teach  it,  but  how  do  they 
teach  the  whole  college  to  be  apa- 
thetic? They  must  have  some  kind 


SABOTAGE 


19 


of  mass-production  assembly  line 
going/'  He  went  into  the  bath- 
room, washed  the  device  at  the 
sink,  dried  it,  and  put  it  back  in 
the  box. 

Across  the  room.  Burns  had  the 
capsule  in  his  mouth,  and  an  in- 
ward-turned look  on  his  face  as  he 
gingerly  tried  out  the  device. 

Martin  put  everything  back  in 
his  locker  but  the  case  with  two 
wires  attached,  then  took  out  a 
long,  olive-colored  one-piece  suit, 
with  gloves  and  padded  boots  at- 
tached. 

Burns  now  eased  the  capsule 
out  of  his  mouth,  and  stepped  into 
the  bathroom.  There  was  a sound 
of  rushing  water.  His  voice  came 
out  faintly  muffled. 

"The  more  I think  of  it,  the  less 
I like  it  Defeatism  is  catching, 
anyway.  If  they've  found  some 
way  to  compound  it  and  strength- 
en it — but  what's  the  method? 
They  don't  have  courses  in  defeat- 
ism." 

"Obviously,  they'd  use  some  oth- 
er name.** 

"Such  as  what?" 

"I  haven't  figured  that  out  yet." 

Martin  put  on  the  suit  pulled 
up  the  zipper,  and  carefully 
snapped  together  the  long  thin 
blocks  of  connectors  to  either  side. 
He  pressed  a small  button  on  the 
side  of  the  little  olive  case,  saw  a 
tiny  lens  light  up  bright-green, 
indicating  that  the  battery  was 
fully  charged,  slid  the  case  into  a 
pocket  of  the  suit,  connected  the 


two  wdres  to  their  plugs,  zipped 
the  pocket  shut,  and  snapped  to- 
gether the  connector  blocks  on 
either  side.  From  the  sink.  Bums 
growled  his  opinion  of  the  Ta- 
mars, the  war,  and  what  they'd 
probably  run  into  the  next  day. 

"Maybe,"  said  Martin,  "by  this 
time  tomorrow,  you'll  be  happy 
over  the  whole  thing." 

"Let  us  hope  it  doesn't  go 
like  that  last  mess."  Burns  came 
out  of  the  bathroom.  "Sorry,  Mart. 
I didn't  mean  to  talk  while  you 
were  wrestling  with  that  suit." 

Martin  grunted,  and  unrolled 
the  shaped  hood  that  fit  closely 
over  his  head,  with  nothing  open 
but  two  eyeholes  and  two  small 
holes  to  breathe  through.  He 
zipped  it  on,  and  snapped  the  last 
connector  blocks  together.  Then 
he  slid  his  gloved  hand  along  the 
center  of  his  chest,  felt  the  pres- 
sure-switch beneath  the  cloth,  fine 
wires,  and  tiny  spheroidal  units 
that  were  linked  together  in  a layer 
under  the  cloth.  He  pressed  the 
switch,  then  looked  at  his  cot 
against  the  wall.  Slowly  he  raised 
his  right  hand  to  place  it  over  his 
eyes.  He  saw  neither  hand  nor 
arm.  He  felt  the  pressure  as  his 
hand  pressed  the  cloth  gently 
against  his  face,  but  he  saw  only 
the  cot. 

He  turned,  reached  into  his 
locker,  and  saw  the  helmet  appar- 
ently drift  out  toward  him  unsup- 
ported. He  settled  it  carefully  on 
his  head,  feeling  the  built-in  con- 


20 

nector  blocks  of  helmet  and  hood 
snap  together.  He  shut  the  door 
leading  to  the  small  bathroom,  felt 
the  door  with  his  fingers  as  he  shut 
it,  through  the  gloves  of  the  suit, 
but  saw  the  door  swing  eerily  shut 
as  if  for  no  visible  reason.  On  the 
back  of  the  door  was  a full-length 
mirror. 

Martin  looked  in  the  mirror, 
saw  Burns’  locker  and  cot  across 
the  room,  saw  Burns  shrug  into  his 
own  suit,  pull  up  the  zipper,  and 
snap  shut  the  blocks — but  of  him- 
self Martin  saw  notliing  until  he 
leaned  very  close  to  the  mirror. 
And  then  he  saw,  floating  directly 
before  him,  all  there  was  that  was 
visible  of  him — two  small  black 
dots — the  pupils  of  his  eyes. 

A few  moments  later.  Burns 
vanished,  and  the  two  men  care- 
fully checked  each  other. 

‘‘Okay,”  said  Martin,  “Nothing 
visible.” 

“Same  with  you.” 

Martin  shoved  in  the  pressure- 
switch.  At  almost  the  same  in- 
stant, Burns  suddenly  appeared. 
Methodically,  the  two  men  re- 
moved their  slightly-oversize  hel- 
mets, put  them  away,  and  began 
to  unsnap  the  connector  blocks. 

The  next  day,  they  would  go 
through  the  same  procedure  all 
over  again,  but  with  gun,  capsule, 
and  a few  other  standard  items  in 
place.  Now  they  carefully  took  the 
suits  ofiF,  and  hung  them  carefully 
in  the  lockers. 

“I’d  still  like  to  know,”  said 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

Burns,  “how  the  gasbags  worked 
this  one.” 

Martin  smiled.  “The  turning 
wheel  of  time  reveals  all.  Just  wait 
twenty-four  hours.” 

“Yeah,”  said  Burns  dryly.  "'If 
we’re  still  here  by  then.” 

The  next  day,  the  colonel  took 
the  unusual  step  of  giving  a brief 
talk  to  the  assembled  troops,  be- 
fore starting  to  the  surface. 

“Gentlemen,  what  we  face  to- 
day is  the  deadliest  kind  of  sneak 
attack.  Yet  it  appears  comparative- 
ly harmless.  There  is  some  danger 
that  we  may  underestimate  this 
situation  and  sufiEer  a defeat  we 
can’t  afiFord.  I think  it  will  pay  us 
if  we  go  over,  briefly,  our  past  ex- 
periences, to  bring  this  present 
situation  into  perspective.” 

He  glanced  at  Martin.  “Major, 
suppose  you  briefly  analyze  a typi- 
cal enemy  attack.” 

Martin  quickly  thought  it  over. 
‘Their  typical  attack  has  five 
phases.  The  first  apparently  is  a 
kind  of  psychological  reconnais- 
sance-in-force, to  decide  future 
tactics,  and  to  test  the  resistance 
of  various  key-points;  to  us,  these 
key-points  are  individuals  in  posi- 
tions that  are  in  one  way  or  an- 
other sensitive.  The  second  phase 
of  their  attack  is  the  psychological 
assault  to  capture  a selected  key- 
point.  Just  how  this  is  done  is  their 
secret;  from  our  viewpoint,  the  in- 
dividual under  attack  feels  strain, 
tension,  and  severe  depression. 


SABOTAGE 


21 


“If  he  rejects  the  sensations, 
successfully  throws  them  out  of  his 
mind,  and  refuses  to  give  in,  the 
attack  finally  runs  down  or  is 
broken  ofiE.  Apparently  the  enemy 
suffers  some  kind  of  psychic  loss 
or  injury  in  the  process,  because 
following  an  unsuccessful  attack 
there  is  a lessening  of  enemy  ac- 
tivity. But  if  the  psychological  at- 
tack is  successful,  the  key-point  is 
captured.  From  our  viewpoint,  the 
individual  cracks,  and  the  enemy 
now  takes  control  of  his  actions. 
That  control  of  his  actions  con- 
stitutes the  third  phase,  in  which, 
if  he  is  a government  official,  he 
makes  harmful  decisions,  signs 
the  wrong  documents,  recommends 
the  wrong  course  of  action.  If  he's 
a teacher,  he  plants  in  his  student's 
minds  selected  bits  of  false  infor- 
mation. The  damage  is  reinforced 
with  almost  hypnotic  effect  by  the 
powerful  personality,  not  of  the 
individual  taken  over  but  appar- 
ently of  the  entity  that  has  psycho- 
logical control. 

“The  fourth  phase  of  the  attack 
is  actually  the  eflFect  of  the  bad 
teaching  or  wrong  decisions, 
which  compound  and  pile  up,  and 
alert  us,  if  nothing  else  does,  to 
the  realization  that  something  is 
wrong. 

“The  fifth  phase  is  retreat.  We 
have  overall  control  of  this  planet, 
and  there  are  evidently  far  more 
of  us  than  there  are  of  them.  Us- 
ing advanced  electronic  tech- 
niques, we  counterattack,  and  they 


Immediately  withdraw,  leaving  us 
with  possession  of  the  key-point. 
Following  a brief  delay,  they  strike 
back  at  us  by  an  attack  on  another 
key-point — that  is,  from  our  view- 
point— another  individual.  Mean- 
while, we  have  the  first  individual 
to  rehabilitate  and  all  the  damage 
he’s  done  to  repair.  At  any  given 
time,  there  appear  to  be  twenty  to 
thirty  enemy  attacks  in  progress 
in  our  own  sector,  except  after 
they’ve  suffered  a repulse,  when 
the  number  drops  by  almost  half. 
Of  these  various  attacks,  we  are, 
at  any  given  time,  unaware  of  at 
least  a few.  The  enemy  relies  heav- 
ily on  concealment,  and  we  often 
have  to  reconstruct  the  sequence 
of  events  afterward." 

The  colonel  nodded.  “Good." 
He  turned  to  Burns.  “Captain, 
how  do  we  recognize  a captured 
key-point,  an  individual  who’s  giv- 
en in  to  them?" 

“In  two  ways,  so  far,  sir.  First, 
by  the  stream  of  damaging  inci- 
dents that  all  lead  back  to  that  one 
individual.  Industrial  accidents, 
for  instance,  involving  the  stu- 
dents of  one  teacher.  Second,  by  a 
peculiar  compelling  quahty  in  the 
speech  of  the  captured  individual 
himself  as  he  drives  home  his  false 
points." 

“Right.  Now,  one  more  ques- 
tion. Martin,  at  what  are  these  at- 
tacks directed?  What  is  the  en- 
emy’s target?" 

Martin  frowned.  “The  earliest 
attacks  were  apparently  random, 


22 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


like  the  blows  of  a person  lashing 
out  at  someone  in  a dark  room. 
But  very  quickly  they  came  to  be 
directed  at  key  government  offi- 
cials, legislators,  high  officers  in 
the  Space  Command.  Then  there 
was  a progressive  shift  to  attacks 
on  our  technology — directly,  at 
first,  by  striking  at  industrial  lead- 
ers and  technological  specialists, 
then  indirectly  by  distorting  the 
training  of  students  going  into  in- 
dustry. As  for  this  latest  attack — ** 
Martin  shook  his  head.  “It  seems 
to  be  directed  against  a whole  stu- 
dent body.  But  I frankly  don’t  see 
what  is  the  actual  objective.” 

The  colonel  nodded.  “What  our 
opponents  are  trying  for,  of  course, 
is  to  find  a decisive  weak  point. 
But  as  it  happens,  the  key  posi- 
tions in  government,  industry,  and 
the  armed  forces,  are  usually  held 
by  people  who  are  accustomed  to 
being  under  pressure  and  are  pre- 
pared to  resist  pressure.  After  the 
comparative  few  who  are  suscepti- 
ble have  been  taken  over,  discov- 
ered, and  replaced,  the  enemy  is 
driven  to  try  a new  approach.  At- 
tacking the  schools  gives  a multi- 
plier eflFect  and  it  is  comparative- 
ly easier,  but  the  results  are  slow. 
New  graduates  are  rarely  given  po- 
sitions of  importance.  And  the 
false  knowledge  given  to  them  is 
likely  to  result  in  industrial  acci- 
dents that  are  troublesome  but 
comparatively  minor,  and  ffiat, 
one  way  or  another,  disqualify  the 
individuals  concerned.  Some  new 


tactic  becomes  necessary.  What 
they  have  hit  on  now  is  a way  to 
emotionally  stun  an  entire  student 
body.  Past  blows  have  been  aimed 
at  government  and  industry.  This 
latest  blow  is  aimed  at  the  emo- 
tions of  a large  group  of  people” 

The  colonel  paused,  and  Mar- 
tin was  aware  of  the  stir  in  the 
room  as  some  of  the  significance 
of  this  began  to  dawn. 

“Attitudes,”  said  the  colonel, 
“are  catching.  And  they’re  basic. 
Strike  a weapon  from  a man’s 
hand,  and  he’ll  find  another. 
Make  his  leaders  betray  him,  and 
he'll  choose  new  leaders.  Let  his 
technology  fail  him,  and  he’ll  re- 
pair it.  But  fix  him  so  he  just  does- 
n’t give  a damn  about  anything — ” 
The  colonel  glanced  around  the 
room.  “Gentlemen,  this  is  one  fight 
we  can’t  afiEord  to  lose.” 

Now,  on  the  surface,  Martin 
and  the  others  were  dispersed 
across  the  campus,  an  invisible 
net  of  unseen  eyes  watching  in 
each  classroom  and  administrative 
office,  joined  together  by  little 
short-range  transmitters  at  their 
throats  and  thimble-sized  receiv- 
ers at  their  ears.  Painstakingly 
they  watched  and  listened,  and 
then  the  voice  of  a sergeant  named 
Cains  spoke  in  Martin’s  ear. 

“Major,  I think  I’ve  found  it.” 

‘Where?” 

“Room  24  of  the  Nears  Social 
Studies  Building.” 

Martin  mentally  pinpointed 


SABOTAGE 


23 


the  building  on  the  map  he*d 
memorized  on  the  way  to  the  sur- 
face. ‘*A11  right.  What's  going  on 
there?” 

‘'Just  a lecture  in  elementary 
psychology,  sir,  but  it’s  got  all  the 
signs.  The  lecturer’s  voice  goes 
right  into  your  head.  What  he  says 
makes  you  feel  cheap,  small,  and 
helpless.  You  have  to  keep  fighting 
it  off,  and  it’s  hard  to  keep  up  with 
him.” 

“That  sounds  like  it,  all  right 
We’ll  be  right  there.” 

The  colonel’s  voice  spoke  in 
Martin’s  ear. 

“Major  Carney,  move  your  men 
to  blocking  positions  outside  the 
Nears  Building.  If  this  man  should 
happen  to  get  away  from  us,  we’ll 
mark  him  with  a dye  pellet  You 
will  arrange  the  accident" 

Carney’s  voice  replied,  "Yes,  sir. 
We’ll  get  him,  sir.” 

“Major  Martin,  you  will  keep  a 
continuous  watch  on  the  rest  of 
the  buildings,  but  move  your  ready 
squad  to  just  outside  the  Nears 
Building.  It  seems  to  me  that  to 
straighten  this  out  is  going  to  be 
unusually  tough.  Sergeant  Cains 
will  step  outside  as  soon  as  the 
door  opens  and  wait  by  the  door. 
You  and  I and  Captain  Burns  will 
handle  this  ourselves.” 

The  door  of  Room  24  of  the 
Nears  Building  swung  open  as  if 
it  had  been  insecurely  latched  and 
blown  back  by  the  wind.  The  colo- 
nel, Martin,  and  Burns  waited  for 


the  count  of  three,  then  stepped 
through  quickly,  each  man  grasp- 
ing the  shoulder  of  the  unseen  man 
in  front  of  him. 

To  their  right  were  rows  of 
seated  students.  To  their  left  was 
a long  blackboard,  with  a closed 
door  halfway  down  the  room.  Near 
this  closed  door  was  a desk,  and 
on  the  far  side  of  the  desk,  facing 
the  blackboard,  stood  an  individ- 
ual with  an  omniscient  expression 
and  a voice  that  carried  a pecul- 
iarly penetrating  blend  of  com- 
plaint, jeer,  and  triumph. 

The  colonel,  Martin,  and 
Bums  stepped  aside  as  the  in- 
structor stopped  speaking,  glanced 
across  the  room,  then  strode  with 
quick  decisive  steps  to  bang  shut 
the  door.  With  die  instructor  at 
the  door,  the  colonel  led  the  way 
behind  the  desk  to  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  room,  where  the 
three  men  then  stood  with  their 
backs  to  the  side  wall  and  waited. 

The  instructor  returned  to  his 
desk. 

Martin  briefly  studied  the  class, 
which  had  a uniform  dulled  and 
dreary  look.  Many  of  the  students 
appeared  to  have  passed  into  a 
kind  of  cataleptic  trance  and  sat 
perfectly  motionless,  eyes  directly 
to  the  front,'  as  the  instructor 
strode  back,  glanced  briefly  at  an 
indecipherable  scrawl  chalked  on 
the  blackboard,  then  faced  the 
class.  His  voice  rose  with  the 
whine  of  a wasp  preparing  to 
sting. 


24 

‘'We  will  now,’'  he  said,  "sum- 
marize our  conclusions.” 

He  turned  to  the  blackboard 
and  with  two  decisive  slashes 
drew  a pair  of  roughly  horizontal 
lines,  one  about  a foot  and  a half 
above  the  other.  Hand  raised,  he 
paused  for  a moment,  then  with  a 
quick  snap  of  the  arm  drew  an  oflE- 
center  egg-shaped  scrawl  between 
the  two  lines.  Above  the  upper 
line,  he  rapidly  seratched  a series 
of  minus  signs.  His  motions  were 
abrupt  and  exaggerated,  but  Mar- 
tin noted  that  no  one  in  the  class 
smiled,  or  even  changed  expres- 
sion. 

The  instructor  now  faced  the 
class. 

"This  is  the  basic  human  situa- 
tion. Here  we  have — ” he  slashed 
the  chalk  across  the  oval — "the 
ego.  And  here — ” he  slashed  at  the 
upper  line — "repulsion.  Here — ” 
the  lower  line — "attraction.  And 
the  result?”  With  quick  slashes  he 
drew  a downward-pointing  arrow. 
"The  ego  moves  down.  The  ego  is 
driven  by  repulsion,  drawn  by  at- 
traction. The  ego  is  without  will. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  will. 
There  is  only  desire.  Desire  is 
rooted  in  the  subconscious.  We 
are  unaware  of  the  subconscious. 
Hence  the  desires  that  determine 
our  actions  are  outside  forces,  not 
subject  to  our  control.  We  do  not 
control  desires.  Desires  control  us. 
Man  is  a puppet.  Man  must  cast 
off  hypocrisy  and  admit  his  will- 
less, soul-less,  helpless  state. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

There  is  only  desire  and  nothing 
but  desire,  and  desire,  whether  it 
be  greed,  lust — ” 

The  keening  voice  rose  and  feD 
in  intensity,  driving  home  each 
individual  thought  with  an  im- 
pact that  could  be  felt,  and  Mar- 
tin had  the  feeling  that  he  was  be- 
ing crammed  head-first  into  a lit- 
tle twisted  room,  where  all  the  fur- 
niture was  warped,  where  walls 
and  ceiling  met  at  odd  angles, 
and  where  the  windows  were  of 
distorted  glass,  looking  out  on  an 
apparently  insane  world. 

The  colonels  voice,  low  and 
distinct,  spoke  in  his  ear. 

"Martin.  Take  him  out.” 

Martin  pressed  his  tongue 
against  the  base  of  the  capsule 
hinged  close  beside  a lower  tooth. 
He  felt  the  capsule  swing  up  and 
over,  to  fit  smoothly  against  the 
biting  surface  of  the  tooth.  He 
stepped  forward. 

The  keening  voice  went  on,  but 
as  Martin  paused  some  three  feet 
from  the  slightly  puffy  face  with 
its  faint  sheen  of  perspiration,  and 
as  he  raised  his  hand  to  the  edge 
of  his  helmet,  he  was  barely  con- 
scious of  the  voice.  Martin 
clenched  his  teeth,  felt  the  cap- 
sule crush,  swallowed  the  sting- 
ing, cool-feeling  liquid,  and  at 
the  same  moment  forced  back  the 
recessed  switch  set  just  inside  the 
edge  of  his  oversize  helmet.  Then 
he  focused  his  whole  mind  and 
consciousness  on  the  man  before 
him. 


SABOTAGE 


25 


Just  how  or  when  it  happened, 
Martin  didn't  know,  but  abruptly 
he  was  conscious  of  the  shift  of 
viewpoint,  saw  the  class  suddenly 
in  front  of  him  instead  of  to  the 
side,  heard  the  apparent  change 
in  tone  of  voice,  saw  the  slight  dim- 
ming of  light,  now  seen  through 
different  organs  of  vision. 

To  one  side  was  a barely-per- 
ceptible  creak  of  leather  and  a 
rustle  of  cloth. 

The  voice  went  on  . no 
individuahty,  but  only  complex- 
ity. Psych-ology  becomes  a science 
and  disproves  itself,  for  there  is  no 
psyche.  Psyche  is  a fiction,  the  soul 
isa  . . .** 

Then  the  voice  abruptly  came  to 
a halt,  as  if  awaiting  fresh  orders. 

Martin  felt,  at  his  shoulder,  a 
brief  reassuring  grip.  Something 
brushed  past,  and  there  was  the 
faint,  barely  perceptible  shuffle  of 
two  men  very  quietly  carrying  a 
third. 

Martin,  looking  out  through 
the  unfamiliar  visual  apparatus, 
briefly  considered  the  jolt  in  store 
for  the  personality  that  had  been 
put  to  the  service  of  spreading  this 
infected  philosophy.  It  would,  of 
course,  have  to  be  ‘‘rehabilitated.* 
What  would  it  feel  when  it  came 
to,  occupying  a drone-body,  with 
the  sweat-course  rising  in  front  of 
it,  where  it  would  be  driven  to  call 
on  will-power  in  increasing  meas- 
ure, would  have  to  surmount  every 
kind  of  obstacle,  to  merely  escape 
the  slowly  advancing  boundary 


that  meant  agonizing  pain.  Slowly, 
nerve  and  determination  would 
have  to  be  built  up,  through  one 
trial,  failure,  and  sheet  of  agony 
after  another,  till  at  last  the  per- 
sonality was  strong  enough  to 
break  through  the  final  obstacle. 
That  in  turn  would  mean  that  it 
was  strong  enough  to  protect  itself 
against  psychological  attack  and 
could  be  trusted  in  its  former  posi- 
tion. The  personality  would  have 
amnesia  for  the  incidents  of  the 
course,  but  the  reflexes  and  atti- 
tudes would  remain.  Martin,  who 
had  gone  through  it  several  times 
during  his  training,  did  not  rehsh 
the  idea  of  starting  it  with  the  be- 
lief that  will-power  and  spirit  were 
myths  that  couldn't  be  called  upon 
in  need. 

The  door  of  the  classroom  swung 
wide,  as  if  it  had  been  insecurely 
latched,  and  a gust  of  wind  had 
blown  it  open. 

Martin  waited  a moment,  then 
closed  the  door. 

The  class  sat  motionless,  wait- 
ing for  the  voice  to  go  on. 

Martin  returned  to  the  desk, 
and  briefly  considered  the  problem. 
The  key-point  was  now  retaken  but 
the  damage,  if  possible,  still  had 
to  be  undone.  That  would  mean  a 
slight  change  in  the  presentation. 

He  looked  searchingly  at  the 
class,  then  leaned  forward,  and  fo- 
cused his  whole  attention. 

The  voice  obediently  snapped 
with  energy.  The  platitudes  rolled 
glibly  out. 


26 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


. Yes,  the  psyche  is  a fic- 
tion. A figment.  Imaginary.  A left- 
over relic  of  past  theories,  amus- 
ing but  vapid,  unproved,  presci- 
entific.*’  Here  and  there,  pencils 
scratched,  and  Martin  could  see 
that  he  had  the  helpless  attention 
of  his  audience.  “Yes,  a mere  con- 
struct of  prescientific  minds.  A 
myth.  A theory.  Unproved,  though 
useful  to  its  believers,  and  as  yet, 
of  course,  not  disproved  ” The  pen- 
cils scratched  on.  “Just  as  will  is 
unproved,  just  as  the  concept  of  a 
Supreme  Being  is  unproved — yet 
they  are  not  disproved.  These  con- 
cepts are  prescientific,  just  as  the 
sun  is  prescientific,  and  the  sun  is 
not  disproved.  The  sun  exists.**  The 
pencils  continued  to  scratch;  those 
few  still  not  taking  notes  con- 
tinued to  watch  him  with  unfo- 
cused gaze.  He  had  the  impression 
that  he  was  feeding  bits  of  infor- 
mation into  a computer  which 
would  accept  whatever  he  might 
give  it  and  act  accordingly. 

Martin  groped  in  memory  for 
the  earlier  part  of  the  lecture,  seek- 
ing a way  to  undercut  the  ideas 
that  had  left  him  feeling  as  if  he 
were  being  shoved  into  a narrow 
twisted  room. 

“Yes,  the  ego  is  driven  by  repul- 
sion, drawn  by  attraction.  But  the 
essential  consciousness  of  man  is 
not  the  ego  of  psychology.  The  ego 
is  without  will.  But  man’s  con- 
sciousness has  will.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  will,  because  will  is 
not  a thing.  Yet  will  exists.** 


Carefully,  concentrating  on 
each  separate  thought,  Martin 
worked  down  the  long  list,  draw- 
ing distinctions  that  undercut  each 
separate  assertion  that  he  could 
trace  in  memory.  Tensely,  he 
hurled  the  ideas  across: 

“Man  is  a puppet.  His  body  is 
controlled  by  strings  called  nerves. 
His  brain  is  a calculating  machine, 
built  of  protoplasm.  Seen  thus, 
man  has  complexity,  but  no  indi- 
viduality. Yet  body  and  brain  are 
not  all.  Who  is  the  observer  who 
considers  body  and  brain?  The  idea 
of  soul  is  ancient,  prescientific, 
unproved,  yet  not  disproved.  If 
there  is  a puppet,  worked  by 
strings,  what  works  the  strings? 
What  applies  certain  ultimate 
changes  in  electrical  potential  that 
control  the  body  and  the  calculat- 
ing machine  of  the  brain?” 

Relentlessly,  he  destroyed  the 
earlier  assertions,  while  time 
stretched  out,  and  he  stood 
drenched  in  sweat,  and  the  pencils 
scratched  on  endlessly: 

“ ...  As  psychology  becomes 
a science,  it  is  no  longer  psy- 
chology, as  the  psyche  does  not 
exist,  to  the  present  instruments 
of  science.  What  science  does 
not  observe,  it  cannot  record  and 
cannot  study.  But  psychology  it- 
self is  not  yet  out  of  its  infancy. 
Its  conclusions  are  tentative,  not 
final.  Its  failure  to  observe  doe^ 
not  disprove  the  existance  of  the 
thing  not  observed.  A man  with 
inadequate  instruments  may  fail  to 


SABOTAGE 


27 


detect  a particular  star,  but  the  star 
he  fails  to  observe  is  still  there.  The 
failure  is  that  of  the  method,  not  of 
the  star  . . 

At  some  point,  Martin  sensed  a 
change.  The  pencils  obediently 
scratched,  and  the  watching  gaze 
still  seemed  unfocused,  but  the 
look  of  dulled  apathy  was  gone. 
It  dawned  on  Martin  that  he  had 
finally  cut  the  foundation  out  from 
under  the  previous  teacliings. 

He  now  spoke  more  freely,  driv- 
ing home  a belief  in  soul,  will, 
character,  and  the  power  of  man  to 
fight  and  eventually  conquer  ob- 
stacles. When  he  was  through,  he 
knew,  no  present-day  teacher  of 
psychology  would  recognize  the 
course.  But  that  didn't  trouble 
Martin.  A glance  at  the  clock 
showed  him  he  had  only  a few  min- 
utes left,  but  the  audience  was  at- 
tentive, and  the  pencils  wrote  ra- 
pidly, and  as  the  second  hand  of 
the  clock  on  the  wall  swung  up  to- 
ward the  hour  mark,  some  memory 
warned  Martin  that  these  classes 
were  ended  in  a special  way. 

‘TMow,"  he  said,  varying  the  pro- 
cedure slightly,  ‘‘soon  the  bell  will 
ring,  and  you  will  feel  wide  awake. 
You  will  go  out  conscious  that 
you  have  judgment,  the  power,  of 
choice,  and  will.  When  the  bell 
rings,  you  will  feel  wide  awake, 
fresh,  full  of  energy." 

The  second  hand  aligned  itself 
with  the  minute  hand.  In  the  hall- 
way, a bell  rang  jarringly. 

The  class  stirred,  sat  up,  burst 


into  an  explosion  of  sound  and  en- 
ergy. With  a rush,  the  class  emp- 
tied into  the  hall. 

Drenched  in  sweat,  Martin 
leaned  against  the  desk. 

Now,  he  thought,  let  that  blast 
of  energy  hit  the  rest  of  them.  Let 
faith  and  determination  compete 
with  apathy,  and  see  what  happens. 

Martin  felt  the  relief  of  a man 
who  sees  success  close  at  hand. 

Behind  him,  there  was  the  quiet 
click  of  a latch. 

Martin  remembered  the  door 
near  the  desk.  He  turned. 

A well-groomed  man  with  an  in- 
tensely-piercing  gaze  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  stared  directly  into 
his  eyes. 

It  dawned  on  Martin  that  this 
was  the  chairman  of  the  depart- 
ment. 

The  two  men  stood  staring  at 
each  other.  The  chairman  of  the  de- 
partment said  nothing,  but  the  in- 
tense unwavering  gaze,  and  the 
sense  of  a powerful,  dominant  per- 
sonality began  to  make  itself  felt. 

Abruptly,  Martin  felt  a brief 
sensation  of  dread.  There  was  a 
flicker  of  some  unspecified  fear. 

— Something  might  happen  to 
him. 

The  thought  wavered,  then 
strengthened. 

The  dread  closed  around  him 
like  an  iron  strap. 

His  heart  began  to  race. 

The  palms  of  his  hands  felt 
damp  and  his  legs  weak  and  shaky. 


28 

The  department  chairman 
smiled  and  took  a slow  step  for- 
ward. 

Somewhere  within  Martin, 
there  was  a sensation  like  the  im- 
pact of  a massive  object  striking 
against  a granite  cliff.  There  was  a 
sense  of  heavy  jarring — but  noth- 
ing gave. 

Martin  continued  to  look  into 
the  intense  eyes,  focusing  his  own 
gaze  on  the  faint  light  that  seemed 
to  be  there  somewhere  deep  in  the 
backs  of  the  eyes. 

A thought  flashed  briefly 
through  his  mind:  Had  this  entity, 
whatever  it  was,  ever  gone  through 
the  equivalent  of  the  sweat  course? 
Had  it  ever  been  compelled  to  call 
up  will  and  nerve  a thousand 
times,  or  be  sent  painfully  back  to 
the  beginning,  to  start  from  there 
and  do  the  whole  thing  all  over 
again? — Just  what  was  the  limit  of 
its  resistance? 

Martin  stepped  forward,  focus- 
ing his  gaze  on  that  faint  light, 
deep  in  the  eyes. 

Again  there  was  a sense  of  men- 
tal collision. 

For  a long  moment,  nothing 
happened. 

Then  there  was  a slow,  heavy 
yielding. 

The  light,  whatever  it  was, 
didn't  waver  in  the  eyes.  But  the 
sense  of  attack  weakened,  then 
broke. 

The  department  chairman 
abruptly  shook  his  head,  and 
stepped  back. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

For  an  instant,  Martin  was  sure 
he  had  won.  As  this  certainty 
flooded  through  him,  he  became 
vaguely  aware  that  he  was  ofiE-bal- 
ance  mentally. 

Abruptly,  with  his  opponent 
still  turned  away,  the  sensation  of 
dread  was  back.  The  imagined  iron 
strap  drew  tight  around  his  chest. 

The  department  chairman 
looked  up  again,  the  light  in  his 
eyes  intense  and  unwavering.  He 
looked  directly  into  Martin's  eyes. 

This  time,  the  jar  and  shock 
were  heavier  than  Martin  had  ever 
experienced. 

The  room  wavered  around  him. 

It  came  to  Martin  that  he  was 
under  attack  from  two  directions 
at  once.  From  the  man  here  before 
him,  and  from  a distance.  With  a 
violent  effort  of  will,  he  struggled 
hard  to  stay  conscious. 

Once  again,  nothing  gave.  But 
this  time,  the  crushing  anxiety 
grew,  drew  tighter,  and  tighter  still. 

Somewhere,  there  was  a faint 
rustle  of  cloth.  Martin,  his  gaze 
watery,  but  still  fixed  on  the  man 
in  front  of  him,  knew  dimly  that 
neither  of  them  had  moved. 

Now,  close  at  hand,  there  was  a 
faint  quiet  scuff 

The  pressure  mounted  till  Mai^ 
tin  saw  through  a red  haze.  The 
blood  pounded  in  his  ears,  and  he 
couldn’t  breathe.  Through  a sea  of 
agony,  he  struggled  to  hold  out. 

Then,  somewhere,  something 
broke. 

The  sense  of  pressure  dropped  to 


SABOTAGE 


29 


a fraction  of  its  former  strength, 
then  tried  to  reassert  itself. 

Martin  sucked  in  a deep  breath. 
Abruptly,  his  vision  cleared.  He 
snapped  the  hallucinatory  band, 
smashed  the  whole  body  of 
thoughts  struggling  to  get  control. 

In  front  of  him,  the  department 
chairman  wavered  on  his  feet. 

Martin  faced  him  steadily,  un- 
certain what  could  have  happened. 
Then  he  noticed  the  change  in  the 
eyes,  as  if  a different  personality 
looked  out. 

There  was  a brief  compression 
of  cloth  at  the  sleeve,  near  the  de- 
partment chairman's  shoulder,  as 
if  an  invisible  hand  gave  a brief  re- 
assuring grip. 

It  dawned  on  Martin  that  when 
the  colonel  planned  an  attack,  he 
planned  it  right.  After  the  enemy 
had  his  reserve  committed,  then 
the  colonel  made  his  move. 

Martin  grinned.  The  gasbags 
had  lost  something  this  time.  And 
it  wasn't  over  yet. 

The  reason  for  their  original  ra- 
pid progress  was  clear  enough  now. 

By  controlling  the  source  of 
supposedly-valid  psychological 
knowledge,  the  enemy  had  gained 
an  opportunity  to  thoroughly  sabo- 
tage ^e  outlook  of  each  individ- 
ual student  in  the  regular  course  of 


his  education.  Then,  by  the  com- 
bined force  of  their  wrong  beliefs, 
the  sabotaged  individuals  unwit- 
tingly sabotaged  others,  snowball- 
ing the  trouble. 

Given  a little  more  time  undis- 
turbed, there  was  no  telling  what 
kind  of  a catastrophe  might  have 
been  achieved.  But  now,  using 
their  own  techniques,  it  should  be 
possible  to  build  up  exactly  the  op- 
posite attitudes  from  those  they’d 
intended.  Meanwhile,  the  previ- 
ously-captured instructors  would 
be  experiencing  the  sweat  course. 
They  would  return  with  amnesia 
for  tlie  details  of  the  whole  grim 
experience,  but  the  resulting  atti- 
tudes and  reflexes  would  remain. 
By  the  time  the  latest  miracle  of 
electronic  wizardry  had  everyone’s 
sense  of  identity  sorted  out  again, 
the  damage  ought  to  be  more  than 
undone. 

Martin  rested  his  knuckles  on  the 
desk  and  faced  the  new  class  just 
filing  in.  Abruptly,  Martin  thought 
for  a moment  of  the  swordsman 
of  old,  and  of  his  entirely  differ- 
ent kind  of  battle,  and  he  looked 
around  with  a sense  of  strangeness 
at  the  quiet,  peaceful  surround- 
ings. Then  he  shook  his  head. 

This  was  different. 

But  it  was  just  as  deadly.  M 


BOOKS 


Our  ancestors  were  afraid 
of  magic;  we  are  afraid  of  the  word. 
Except  for  children,  anthropolo- 
gists, and  s-f  writers,  no  one  uses 
the  word  in  its  proper  meaning — 
which  is,  simply,  that  class  of 
phenomenon  and  experience 
which  we  can  neither  explain  nor 
explain  away.  In  a culture  whose 
firmest  faith  is  the  concept  of  lin- 
ear cause-and-effect,  the  popular 
inclination  is  to  deny  the  ‘reality” 
of  any  incomprehensibles  which 
cannot  be  classified  as  “miracles  of 
modern  science.”  What  is  left  over 
is  manifestly  either  error  of  observ- 
ation, outright  trickery,  or  gullible 
“superstition.” 

Our  ancestors  were  comforted 
and  sustained  by  their  myths;  we 
admit  to  none.  Except  for  children, 
psychologists,  and  s-f  writers,  no 
one  accepts  contemporary  mytho- 
logy in  its  true  sense — which  is,  of 
course,  the  symbolic  projection 
(personification,  objectivization) 
of  unconscious  knowledge.  In  a 
culture  so  antagonistic  to  the  con- 
cept of  magic  as  to  exclude  it  even 
from  religion  (rejecting  all  revel- 
ation for  rationale;  favoring  the 
manifestation  over  the  inspira- 
tion), the  popular  inclination  is  to 


deny  the  “reality”  of  any  awareness 
whose  source  is  unnameable.  Per- 
sistent symbolic  figures  origina- 
ting outside  the  bestiaries  of  sci- 
entific classification  (Dinosaur, 
Germ,  Neanderthal  Man,  Astro/ 
Cosmo/naut,  Miracle  Drug,  Hell- 
Bomb,  and  of  course  Scientist, 
both  Noble  and  Mad)  are,  mani- 
festly, distortions  of  observation 
(“folklore”  and — usually — **flying 
saucer”),  deliberately  perpetuated 
illusions  (“false  religions,”  “red 
propaganda”),  or  simply  “imagina- 
tion” (good  as  in  “creative,”  bad 
as  in  “neurotic”). 

But  we  continue  to  create  and 
cherish  our  mythic  symbols.  (Add, 
for  instance:  Auschwitz  Ovens, 
Coca-Cola  Bottle,  Jack-and-Jackie, 
Thinking  Machine,  Pinup  Girl/ 
Marilyn  Monroe,  etc.)  What  we 
lack  is  the  codification  of  the 
myths  themselves.  “Myth”  is  in  a 
sense  die  mathematic  of  uncon- 
scious symbolism,  the  means  by 
which  we  organize  and  recognize 
the  raw  symbols  which  are  our  only 
means  of  communication  with  our 
own  non-conscious  selves.  The 
mnemonic  device  of  the  myth  main- 
tains the  symbolic  language  in 
available,  accessible  form. 


30 


BOOKS 


31 


The  as-yet  unformulated  con- 
temporary mythology  is  the  map 
modern  man  must  use  in  the  search 
for  his  soul.  And  how  desperate 
that  search  is  becoming  is  evident 
not  only  in  our  private  and  person- 
al disorientations  (sexual  “abnor- 
mality,” suicide,  drug  addiction, 
etc.,  as  well  as  the  official  statistics 
on  “mental  illness”),  but  in  our 
public,  institutional  confusions  as 
well  (cold  wars,  dirty  little  wars, 
price  wars,  gang  wars,  race  wars, 
space  race,  etc.). 

An  increasingly  large  part  of 
serious  speculative  fiction,  in  and 
out  of  “science  fiction,”  now  con- 
cerns itself  with  the  examination 
and  analysis  of  mythology,  and  a 
significant,  if  smaller,  segment 
with  the  creative  search  for  viable 
modern  myths.  Most  of  these  latter 
attempts,  inevitably,  emerge  as  im- 
itations, rationalizations,  or  cos- 
metic-modernizations of  the  no 
longer  vital  mythotypes  of  the 
agrarian  and  nomadic  cultures  of 
the  past.  But  here  and  there,  one 
feels  the  authentic  thrill,  if  only 
for  a chapter,  a scene,  or  a page, 
as  bits  of  tlie  new  Passion  are  arti- 
culated. 

Eight  recent  s-f  novels  fall  with- 
in this  mythotropic  movement, 
combining  to  produce  in  inter- 
change something  a bit  more  than 
the  sum  of  their  statements. 

Edgar  Pangborns  the  judg- 


ment OF  eve'  is  set  in  the  dawn 
of  a new  culture,  following  on  the 
devastation  of  the  “One  Day  War” 
and  the  plagues  and  mutations 
that  followed  it.  The  story  is  told 
by  a scholar  of  some  centuries  la- 
ter, endeavoring  to  piece  out  the 
substance  of  one  of  the  basic  myths 
of  his  own  time.  In  the  retelling 
of  one  of  the  most  enduring  of  folk 
tales  (the  three  princes  seeking 
their  fortunes  in  competition  for 
the  hand  of  the  beautiful  prin- 
cess), Pangborn  is  attempting  nei- 
ther to  rationalize  the  legend  nor 
to  justify  it  in  terms  of  the  present 
or  possible  future.  He  makes  no  ef- 
fort at  the  sort  of  realism  which  is 
the  usual  measure  of  the  atom- 
doom  story — indeed — deliberate- 
ly bypasses  the  period  of  degrada- 
tion and  dissolution. 

EVE  is  the  story  of  a beginning 
— not  individualized  but  abstract- 
ed. A culture  has  grown  from  this 
conception  to  a point  where  it  can 
now  inquire  into  its  own  origins; 
but  the  mythic  significance  of  Eve 
herself  and  the  man  who  wins  her 
— mythic  mother  and  father  of  the 
new  world — is  of  less  importance 
than  the  role  of  the  myth  itself  in 
nurturing  the  new  culture. 

The  whole  thing  is  a job  that 
could  not  have  been  done  by  any 
writer  less  skilled,  less  tender,  or 
more  sentimental  than  Pangborn, 
who  has  managed  to  demonstrate 
the  life-giving  function  of  myth  in 


‘the  judgment  of  eve,  Edgar  Pangborn;  Simon  & Schuster,  1966;  224  pp.;  $3.95. 


32 

— if  not  an  actual  myth — a most 
effective  fairy-tale. 

In  Avram  Davidson's  the  kar- 
CHEE  REiGN^  the  setting  is  again 
a devastated  civilization — this 
time  as  the  result  of  the  invasion 
of  Earth  by  the  Kar-Chee,  whose 
superscience  planetary  mining  op- 
eration has  tumbled  whole  empires 
into  the  sea,  altered  the  faces  of  the 
continents,  and  left  only  small  en- 
claves of  humanity  clinging,  in 
various  degrees  of  primitivism  and 
reconstruction,  to  isolated  pockets 
of  still  fertile  land. 

When  the  story  opens,  there  is 
already  an  established  mythology, 
in  the  process  of  rigidifying  into 
ritual,  based  on  the  invaders  and 
their  powers.  More  accurately, 
there  are  a number  of  such  incipi- 
ent cults,  and  it  is  the  confronta- 
tion of  two  of  them  which  opens 
the  way  for  an  effort  at  resistance. 
In  the  course  of  the  rebellion  it- 
self, a new  mythology  is  created. 

Davidson's  treatment  falls  a 
good  bit  short  of  the  poetic 
strength  of  Pangborn's.  The  book 
lacks  the  simplicity  and  classic 
proportions  of  eve.  But  it  offers 
some  meaty  material  for  considera- 
tion of  the  complex  functions 
served  by  mythology. 

The  vital  role  of  the  viable  myth 
in  the  formation  of  a culture  is  di- 
rectly opposed  by  the  restrictive 
nature  of  moribund  ritualized 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

myth,  and  most  '^conventional"  sci- 
ence fiction  has  (in  keeping  with 
the  general  cultural  posture)  con- 
cerned itself  with  the  myth-break- 
ing, rather  than  myth-making 
necessities.  Jack  Vance's  the 
BLUE  WORLD*  is  a colorful  and  ab- 
sorbing instance  of  development 
along  these  more  traditional  lines. 

On  a predominantly  marine 
world,  the  descendants  of  a space 
voyage  known  as  "The  Escape" 
maintain  a precarious  foothold  on 
tiny  island  settlements.  The  sever- 
al castes  into  which  these  People 
of  the  Floats  are  born  all  trace  their 
origins  to  the  colonizing  crew!  For 
each  caste — Hoodwink,  Smuggler, 
Bezzler,  Malpractor,  etc. — there 
is  a traditional  job,  and  ritual 
training:  — 

"When  the  Ship  of  Space  dis- 
charged the  Firsts  upon  these 
blessed  floats,  there  were  four 
Hoodwinks  among  the  Two 
Hundred.  Later,  when  the  tow- 
ers were  built  and  the  lamps  es- 
tablished, there  were  hoods  to 
wink,  and  it  seemed  only  appro- 
priate that  the  Hoodwinks 
should  occupy  themselves  at  the 
trade.  . . 

The  mythology  that  has  grown 
up  on  the  complex  base  of  the  writ- 
ings and  artifacts  of  the  crew  mem- 
bers, and  the  terrifying  powers  of 
the  Kragen,  the  giant  native  sea- 
dwellers,  has  hardened  into  a ritu- 


*THE  KAR-CHEE  REIGN,  Avram  Davidsoii,  and  rocannon’s  world,  Ursula  K.  LeGuin; 
Ace  Double  G-5 74;  138  pp.,  1 17  pp.  resp.;  500. 

®THE  BLUE  WORLD,  Jack  Vance;  Ballantine  U2i69,  1966;  190  pp.;  500. 


books 


33 


alis  tic  strait' j acke  t,  suppressing 
all  exploration  and  development. 
Vance,  at  his  inventive  and  drama- 
tic best,  develops  this  through  a 
beautifully  paced  adventure  story 
(including  much  carefully- 
thought'Out  utilization  of  the 
marine  ecology)  to  a traditionally 
satisfying  collapse  of  the  barriers 
of  ritual  ignorance  under  the  as- 
sault of  pragmatic  experimenta- 
tion. 

Ursula  LeGuin’s  first  novel, 
rocannon’s  world'^,  is  in  a sim- 
ilar sense  a successful  version  of  a 
(different)  standard  science-fan- 
tasy approach — removed  from 
plain-fantasy  sword-and-sorcery 
not  only  by  its  displacement  to  a 
remote  planet,  where  elves  and 
gnomes  and  winged  steeds  blend 
into  the  landscape  without  offense 
to  the  reader’s  sensibilities  or  cred- 
ibilities— and  where  the  anthro- 
pologist-hero from  a galactic  civil- 
ization is  sustained  as  a reasonable 
element  in  the  story,  by  cutting 
him  off  from  his  base  world  and 
its  scientific  resources — but  even 
more,  as  a result  of  the  charm  and 
delicacy  of  the  writing.  Nothing 
here  to  keep  you  up  thinking  all 
night,  but  a pleasant  few  hours  of 
reading. 

Claude  Nunes'  (also  first) 
novel,  INHERIT  THE  EARTH®,  fails 
to  achieve  either  the  poetic,  specu- 
lative, or  dramatic  satisfactions  of 


any  of  the  books  already  discussed, 
but  it  does  pose  a problem  intrinsi- 
cally fascinating,  and  for  the  first 
half  of  the  book,  at  least,  sustains 
a high  level  of  both  narrative  and 
speculative  interest.  In  a sense,  its 
failure  after  that  is  a more  vital 
contribution  to  the  happenstance- 
symposium  exchange  effected  by 
this  whole  group  of  books  than  ei- 
ther Vance’s  attack  on  myth-as- 
superstition,  or  LeGuin’s  nostalgic 
reshaping  of  yesterday’s  myth  fig- 
ures. The  protagonists  here  are 
artificially  developed  doll-size  hu- 
manoids, whose  origins  and  initial 
situation  are  such  as  to  remove  both 
fear  of  death  and  pressure  of  hun- 
ger from  their  biopsychic  composi- 
tion: presumably  the  culture  they 
create  as  they  take  over  the  aban- 
doned radioactive  earth  will  be  ei- 
ther without  mytlis,  or  so  differ- 
ent in  its  basic  symbols  as  to 
appear  mythless.  But  Nunes  chick- 
ens out:  by  the  end  of  the  book, 
the  creatures  have  begun  to  die 
and  hunger,  and  the  statement-by- 
default  appears  to  be  simply  that 
there  is  no  drama  to  be  found  in 
the  absence  of  the  essential  human 
myths. 

As  it  happens,  three  of  the  books 
in  this  group  are  first  novels,  all 
of  them,  by  further  coincidence, 
the  work  of  writers  who  were  first 
published  during  1962.  Of  the 


^rocannon’s  world — see  note  for  the  kar-chee  reign. 

'^INHERIT  the  earth,  Claude  Nunes,  and  dawnman  planet.  Mack  Reynoldsi  Ace 
Double  G-580,  1966;  127  pp.,  117  pp.  resp.;  500. 


34 

three,  Roger  Zelazny  is  the  only 
one  whose  reputation  is  already 
solidly  established  by  his  magazine 
work:  this  immortal®,  in  fact, 
appeared  originally  in  a shorter 
version  in  this  magazine  . 

And  Call  Me  Conrad,"  F&SF  Oct. 
&Nov.  1965). 

It  is  unfair,  I suppose,  to  judge 
a book  by  ones  expectations — ^but 
it  is  also  inevitable:  a Grade  B 
novel  by  a Grade  C (or  unknown) 
writer  will  always  look  better  than 
the  same  Grade  B from  a Grade  A 
man.  With  this  in  mind,  I regret 
to  say  that  I found  immortal 
an  impressive  disappointment: 
impressive  for  its  poetry,  its  tech- 
nical skill,  its  occasional  philo- 
sophic insights  and  character 
asides;  disappointing  as  a novel, 
both  in  conception  and  structure. 

Superficially,  the  book  might  be 
classified  as  ‘"conservative"  s-f,  in 
the  same  sense  as  the  Vance  and 
LeGuin.  Actually,  it  is  better  de- 
scribed as  reactionary.  Zelazny's 
response  to  the  common  feeling  of 
myth-loss  is  an  attempt  to  refur- 
bish the  old  forms  of  positing  a 
devolutionary  process  (radiation- 
induced)  in  which  the  figures  of 
ancient  Greek  mythology  reappear 
“naturally" : not  so  much  the  new- 
wine-in-old-bottles  of  the  usual 
old-myth-justification  or  sword- 
and-sorcery  as  an  attempt  to  decant 
the  old  stuff  into  new  ones.  Let  it 
be  said  for  the  authors  technical 
skill  that  he  carried  out  the  exer- 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

cise  expertly  within  the  framework 
of  the  book;  but  though  he  never 
spilled  a drop,  last  night's  cham- 
pagne in  today's  plastic  flask  is  still 
warm  and  flat — and  likely  to  be 
confusing  as  well. 

The  old  myths  have  not  lost 
their  power  to  enchant;  they  have 
simply  lost  the  power  of  myth,  be- 
cause their  images  are  no  longer 
those  in  which  we  clothe  our  arche- 
types. The  sabertooth  has  succeed- 
ed Cerberus  as  a symbolic  figure; 
the  browsing  brontosaur  evokes 
more  responsive  overtones  (or  in- 
nertones?)  than  Cyclops  brooding 
in  his  cave;  the  eternal  exile  comes 
to  mind  more  readily  in  blank- 
faced body-bristling  space  armor 
than  in  the  Greek  or  Roman  drap- 
eries of  either  Odysseus  or  the 
Wandering  Jew.  There  is  no  way 
to  turn  this  psychic  clock  back, 
however  much  we  might  prefer  the 
(now)  mellower  symbols  of  a less 
complicated  world. 

I cannot  leave  this  discussion, 
however,  without  adding  that, 
though  the  plot  and  story  elements 
are  conventional  (for  s-f),  and  the 
thematic  content  confusingly  in- 
verted, the  style  and  treatment  are 
(for  s-f)  almost  revolutionary:  al- 
ternately intensely-intimately-ten- 
der  and  tough-hard-boiled  in 
mood,  essentially  introspective  in 
tone,  much  more  preoccupied  with 
personal  moralities  and  ethics  than 
group  mores  or  behavior,  the  treat- 
ment is  very  close  to  the  Hammett- 


®THis  IMMORTAL,  Roger  Zelazny;  Ace  F-393,  1966;  174  pp.,  400. 


BOOKS 


35 


Chandler  school— something  rare- 
ly attempted  and  much  less  often 
realized,  in  any  v^iety  of  s-f.  And 
as  was  sometimes  true  of  Hammett, 
and  almost  always  of  Chandler, 
the  writing  itself  covers  all  varie- 
ties of  excellence,  from  glib  to  su- 
perb. 

Samuel  Delaney,  as  it  happens, 
also  began  publishing  in  1962.  To 
the  best  of  my  knowledge,  nothing 
of  his  has  ever  appeared  in  a mag- 
azine, and  EMPIRE  STAR*^  and 
bable-17*  are  his  sixth  and 
seventh  novels,  all  published  by 
Ace.  I think  it  would  be  fair  to  say 
that,  with  Zelazny  and  Thomas 
Disch,  he  represents  the  most 
promising  of  the  new  American 
s-f  writers  so  far. 

But  Delaney  offers  no  such  firm 
grips  for  dissection  and  discussion 
as  Zelazny  does.  Before  reading 
these  two  new  books,  I had  seen 
only  one  other  (the  ballad  of 
BETA  2,  F&SF  Books,  Nov. 
1965).  Since  then  I have  gone 
racing  through  the  other  four,  and 
in  the  storm  of  impressions  left  be- 
hind, I can  say  only  this  much — 

There  is,  in  Delaney’s  work,  a 
mythic-poetic  power  comparable 
in  its  intensity  and  creative  effects 
only  to  the  work  of  such  names  as 
Sturgeon,  Ballard,  Vonnegut, 
Cordwainer  Smith.  His  style  is  un- 
developed— indeed,  still  highly 


Poul 

Anderson's 

newest  S-F 


Dominic  Flandry— the  James  Bond 
of  outer  space— is  pitched  into  a 
war  between  two  non-human  races 
and  must  sleuth  out  the  reasons 
why  mankind's  rivals  started  the 
trouble  . . . 


ENSIGN  FUNDRY 


$4.50,  now  at  your  bookstore 


CHILTON  BOOKS 


derivative  of  both  Sturgeon  and 
Smith.  He  mixes  the  most  melo- 
dramatic absurd  cosmic  shticks 
with  shockingly  powerful  images 
and  insights.  (E.  E.  Smith  and  van 
Vogt  aren’t  even  dfi  it  with  extra- 
super-galactic  Delaney  space  op- 
era.) 

He  tosses  basic  concepts  of  time 
and  space  and  mathematics  (but 
valid  ones;  not  pseudo-surface  jar- 
gon) around  as  dizzyingly  as  he 
juggles  dazzling  psychological  in- 
sights and  aesthetic  theorizings.  He 
likes  the  word  ‘multiplex,’*  and  it 
suits  him. 

The  total  effect  of  his  books  is 


^EMPIRE  STAR,  Samucl  R.  Delaney,  and  the  tree  lord  of  imeten,  Tom  Purdom; 
Acc  Double  M-139,  1966;  102  pp.,  152  pp.  resp.;  450. 

®babel-17,  Samuel  R.  Delaney;  Ace  F-388,  1966;  173  pp.,  400. 


36 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


the  exact  opposite  of  Zelazny’s 
novel:  the  surface  is  confusing; 
the  essence  is  marvellously  clear. 
If  I go  back  and  read  through  the 
novels  again,  perhaps  by  the  time 
the  next  one  comes  along,  I will  be 
able  to  articulate  the  components  of 
my  excitement.  Meantime — I 
don't  know  where  he  came  from, 
where  he’s  going,  or  quite  clearly 
what  he’s  doing  now — but  this  is 
one  of  the  people  who  has  begun 
to  carve  the  new  myth  out  of  the 
void.  I hope  he  can  keep  it  up.  I 
want  to  read  more. 

— Judith  Merril 

STRANGE  SIGNPOSTS,  AN  ANTHOLOGY 
OF  THE  FANTASTIC,  Roger  Elwood 
and  Sam  Moskowitz,  eds.;  Holt 
Rinehart  and  Winston  1966;  319 
pp.;  $5.50 

STRANGE  SIGNPOSTS  is  a bot- 
tom-of-the-barrel  anthology.  There 
are  Big  Names  in  it,  but  don’t  be 
tempted:  most  of  them  are  repre- 
sented by  bad  stories,  or  excerpts 
from  novels,  or  unfinished  works. 
Mary  Shelley’s  “story,”  for  instance, 
is  an  extremely  disjointed  21 -page 
condensation  of  an  entire  novel, 
freed  from  any  “extraneous  dia- 
logue, description  or  other  unneces- 
sary exposition.”  They’re  lucky 
she’s  dead.  H.  G.  Wells  is  repre- 
sented by  a very  early  story — 
unfinished — and  Edgar  Rice  Bur- 
roughs by  a very  late  one — un- 
finished. There  is  an  unusually 
silly  excerpt  from  a novel  by  Jules 
Verne  (which  you  can  probably 


find  in  its  entirety  if  you  want  to), 
an  excerpt  from  a boy’s  book  that 
describes  a hehcopter  (and  then 
goes  on  much  too  long),  and  early 
pieces  by  Arthur  C.  Clarke  and 
Robert  Bloch  that  I sincerely  hope 
are  their  worst.  Two  other  Big 
Names  are  included:  Lovecraft 
(“The  Whisperer  in  Darkness”) 
and  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  (“Rap- 
pacini’s  Daughter”).  The  former 
is  available  in  a paperback  collec- 
tion of  Lovecraft’s  from  Arkham 
House  and  the  latter — how  could 
they  have  the  face  to  include  it? — 
is  available  just  about  everywhere; 
there  is  no  excuse  for  including  it 
in  anything  again  except  a text- 
book. There  are  three  naive  stories 
from  writers  of  the  ’30’s,  one  so- 
so  19th  century  piece,  a good- 
enough  story  by  Bradbury  with  t 
clever  idea,  and  a piece  by  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  that  is  two  parts  tedious 
philosophizing  and  politicizing  and 
one  part  real  fun.  (This  story 
should  be  in  the  book  and  this  one 
they,  should  have  cut.)  Mr.  El- 
wood’s  Introduction  thoughtfully 
synopsizes  most  of  the  stories,  ap- 
parently without  the  slightest 
suspicion  that  he  is  letting  out  Haw- 
thorne’s whole  secret  and  ruining 
Lovecraft’s  very  slow,  very  effective 
build-up  of  suspense.  Lucky  they’re 
both  dead,  too. 

A collection  of  obscure  stories 
by  Big  Names  might  be  worth  it;  or 
of  unfindable  stories  or  out-of-print 
works  or  previously  uncollected 
writers  (I  believe  someone  has  just 


BOOKS 


37 


issued  “The  King  in  Yellow’*  in 
paperback  and  a fairly  expensive 
paperback  collection  of  LeFanu); 
or  even  of  historical  curiosities  like 
Frank  Reade's  helicopter  (if  they’re 
tolerable)  but  this  is  none  of  them. 
It  is  not  even  a collection  of  predic- 
tions, as  the  introduction  suggests: 


Bloch’s  story  is  sheer  fantasy,  Bur- 
roughs’ certainly  the  same  and 
Hawthorne’s  hardly  more.  This  is 
one  of  that  damned  flood  of  anthol- 
ogies that  do  nothing  but  cheapen 
the  market,  exasperate  reviewers 
and  disappoint  all  but  the  most  un- 
sophisticated readers. 

— Joanna  Russ 


BOOKS  RECEIVED 
FICTION 

BARBARELLA,  Jcan-Claudc  Forest,  translated  by  Richard  Seaver;  Grove  1966; 

68  pp;  $5.95  (a  book  collection  of  the  French  “adult  comic  strip”) 

THE  REVOLVING  BOY,  Gertrude  Friedberg;  Doublcday  1966;  191  pp.;  $3.95 
masters’  choice,  Laurence  M.  Janifer,  ed.;  Simon  & Schuster  1966;  350 
pp.;  $5.95  (18  stories) 

TURNING  ON,  Damon  Knight;  Doubleday  1966;  180  pp.;  $3.50  (13  stories) 
NEBULA  AWARD  STORIES  1965,  Damon  Knight,  ed.;  Doubleday  1966;  299 
pp.;  $4.95  (8  stories) 

MOON  OF  THREE  RINGS,  Andre  Norton;  Viking  1966;  316  pp.;  $3.75 
THE  WITCHES  OF  KARRES,  James  H.  Schmitz;  Chilton  1966;  202  pp.;  $4.95 

PAPERBACKS 

SPECTRUM  4,  Kingsley  Amis  and  Robert  Conquest,  eds.;  Berkley  1966;  287 
pp.;  750  (14  stories) 

THE  DROWNED  WORLD,  J.  G,  Ballard;  Berkley  1966;  158  pp.;  500 
WORLD  IN  ECLIPSE,  V^flliam  Dexter;  Paperback  Library  1966;  158  pp.;  500 
destination:  void,  Frank  Herbert;  Berkley  1966;  190  pp.;  500 
CATASTROPHE  PLANET,  Keith  Laumer;  Berkley  1966;  158  pp.;  500 
THE  TOLKIEN  READER,  J.  R.  R.  Tolkien;  Ballantine  1966;  Pub.  note-xvi  pp. 
5 sections,  total  of  279  pp.;  95^ 

the  pan  BOOK  OF  HORROR  STORIES,  Herbert  Van  Thai,  ed.;  Gold  Medal 
1966;  254  pp.;  500  (21  stories) 


Gerald  Jonas  is  a 33-year-old  New  Yorker  and  staff  writer  for 
the  ubiquitous  Talk  of  the  Town  section  of  The  New  Yorker. 
His  poems  have  been  published  in  The  New  Yorker,  Atlantic 
Monthly,  Saturday  Review,  Look  and  F&SF  (imaginary 
NUMBERS  IN  A REAL  GARDEN,  April  1965),  FoT  oll  its  Crystal- 
clear  logic  and  faultless  resolution,  this  short  tale  about  an 
impoverished  Frenchmans  unlikely  power  system  may  not 
exactly  suspend  your  disbelief.  But  it  is  funny. 


^lie  of  ike  j^urioined  ^renouiiied 


^eraid  ^onaA 


Ratiocination  is,  in  itself,  a 
Science.  This  basic  lesson  (which 
once  having  learned  I have  never 
forgotten)  invariably  brings  to  my 
mind  a curious  and  bizarre  occur- 
rence which  I offer  here  by  way  of 
illustration  for  the  proposition  ad- 
vanced in  the  first  sentence  of  this 
paragraph. 

It  was  toward  the  latter  portion 
of  April  in  the  year  19 — that  I 
made  the  reacquaintance  of  a cer- 
tain M.  Edouard  W , whose 

agility  of  thought  had  most  favor- 
ably impressed  me  during  a brief 
rencontre,  in  his  rooms  at  14  Rue 
Auber  in  the  Weir  section  of  the 

15th  arondissement  of  P 

many  years  ago.  A man  of  noble 
parentage  but  sadly  diminished 
means,  he  had  been  forced  to  re- 


tire to  his  ancestral  home  in  a 
desolate  faubourg  on  the  Northern 

Shore  of  L I , where  he 

supplemented  his  meager  ‘‘second 
income"  by  some  discreet  winkle- 
picking. When,  therefore,  he 
called  me  long  distance  from  his 
meager  pied-a-mer  to  urge  my  at- 
tendance on  his  unhappy  fate,  I 
felt  compelled  to  undertake  the 
journey,  arduous  though  it  may  be 
during  rush  hour  (which  it  then 
was). 

I arrived  just  as  a sun  of  im- 
mense orange  girth  was  setding 
into  the  salty  water  beyond  the 
sandy  spit  beyond  his  seedy  house. 
When  he  first  opened  the  door,  I 
was  relieved  to  note  that  nothing 
untoward — at  least  nothing  overt- 
ly untoward — had  happened  in 


39 


40 

the  interim.  The  house  was  quite 
submerged  in  darkness,  but  I could 
make  out  the  tension  that  held  my 
friend’s  perfectly  shaped  nostrils 
in  thrall.  Settled  at  length  on  a 
chaise  longue  in  his  kitchen,  I 
begged  my  friend  to  tell  me— in 
the  febrile  gloom — what  was  up. 

*Tou  will  remember,"*  he  said 
immediately,  “the  work  on  electro- 
magnetism brought  to  fruition  by 
Professor  Luigi  Galvani  of  Bolog- 
na before  his  untimely  death. 
Through  his  experiments,  he  es- 
tablished that  an  electrical  current 
introduced  into  the  leg  of  a mem- 
ber of  the  genus  Batrachia — even 
one  recently  deceased — will  re- 
sult in  a muscular  spasm  roughly 
proportional  to  the  strength  of  the 
electrical  impulse  and  the  dimen- 
sions of  the  frog’s  leg.  The  princi- 
ple he  gave  his  life  for — he  died 
some  years  ago  of  a severe  case  of 
warts — is  now  the  property  of  ev- 
ery schoolchild : the  Galvanic 
phenomenon.  Buty  by  applying  the 
techniques  of  ratiocination,  I dis- 
covered only  recently — ^hidden 
behind  the  fog  of  publicity  sur- 
rounding the  more  flashy  progress 
of  nuclear  physics — that  the  true 
significance  of  Galvani’s  work  has 
not  yet  been  plumbed!” 

Here  my  friend  re-lit  his  ciga- 
rette and  I was  able  to  ask  him  a 
question  that  had  been  burning  in 
my  mind  like  a taper  during  the 
course  of  the  interview  so  far: 
“What,”  I said,  “is  that  awful 
smell?” 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

My  friend  coughed  gently — 
and  there  was  all  the  acumen  of 
years  of  inbreeding  in  that  cough 
— and  then  (with  a little  nod  of 
his  perfectly  wrought  head  as  if  to 
suggest  that  a gentleman  of  re- 
duced means  could  not  be  held  ac- 
countable for  every  little  stink  on 
L I ) he  went  on: 

“Ratiocination  is,  in  itself,  a 
Science.  For  in  what,  essentially, 
does  Reason  consist  if  not  in  the 
process  of  Ratiocination  itself? 
Thus,  by  a simple  application  of 
the  principle  of  non  sequitur,  I 
concluded  that  by  reversing  the 
procedure  of  Galvani,  it  might  be 
possible  to  produce  massive  quan- 
tities of  electromagnetical  ener- 
gies, at  a substantial  savings  over 
the  rates  of  the  Long  Island  Light 
Company.  You  may  observe  on  the 
kitchen  table  the  results  of  my  la- 
bor.” 

Peering  as  closely  as  I dared  at 
the  profusion  of  technicalia  that 
bestrewed  the  tabletop,  I noticed 
immediately  a number  of  copper 
wires  leading  from  a number  of 
tightly  bound  copper  coils  to  a 
number  of  small  plates  of  some 
porcelain-like  substance.  On  the 
plates  themselves,  where  I had  al- 
ready guessed  the  key  to  the  experi- 
ment should  lie,  there  was  abso- 
lutely— nothing! 

Aghast,  I whirled  about  to  con- 
front my  friend,  but  the  delicate 
smile  on  his  perfectly  shaped  lips 
told  me  what  I should  have  al- 
ready known:  i.e.,  that  he  already 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  THE  PURLOINED  GRENOUILLES 


41 


knew.  'Indeed/'  he  began,  'the 
frogs  are  gone.  It  is  as  you  see  ev- 
ery morning.  I import  at  great  ex- 
pense a number  of  frogs — ^mem- 
bers of  the  noble  species,  Rana 
esculenta — from  France.  After 
linking  them  up  to  the  dynamos, 
I begin  to  tickle  them  gently  with 
this  goosefeather  you  perceive 
here.  The  frogs  begin  to  laugh, 
their  legs  begin  to  t^vitch  with  un- 
controllable glee,  and  great  waves 
of  Galvanic  energy  surge  back 
through  the  copper  wires  into  the 
copper  coils.  From  thence  comes 
the  power  that  lights  my  lights, 
heats  my  heat,  and  turns  all  the 
wheels  in  my  humble  home.  The 
frogs — chosen  for  their  abundance 
of  Batrachian  risibility  as  well  as 
the  plump  development  of  their 
leg  muscles — continue  to  chuckle 
all  night,  and  this  provides  just 
enough  current  to  power  a tiny 
night-light  beside  my  simple  pal- 
let. When  I awake — but  what  can 
I say  that  you  have  not  already 
guessed?  When  I awake,  prepared 
to  stir  my  house  to  life  again  with 
a waft  of  a goosefeather,  I find  the 
frogs  have  quite  vanished.  Into  the 
ether!'' 

I shuddered  uncontrollably.  It 
was  not  yet  the  height  of  summer 

on  L I (it  being  then 

April),  and  there  are  uncharted 
winds  on  the  Northern  Shore  that 
blow  with  an  almost  Antarctic 
ferocity.  The  lightless,  heatless 
house  seemed  colder  suddenly,  and 
I noticed  for  the  first  time,  staring 


at  my  hapless  friend,  the  perfectly 
shaped  bags  beneath  his  eyes. 
"Your  phone,"  I said,  lifting  the 
receiver,  "is  not  powered  by  your 
homemade  generator?" 

My  deduction  proved  to  be  cor- 
rect, and,  without  waiting  for  con- 
firmation, I dialed  the  number  of 
my  other  good  friend,  C.  Jules 
DouxPain,  who  had  only  recently 
emigrated  to  this  country  to  as- 
sume direction  of  the  Belgian  Waf- 
fle Pavilion  at  the  New  York 
World's  Fair. 

As  quickly,  briefly,  simply  and 
concisely  as  I was  able,  I outlined 
the  situation  to  him,  upon  which 
he  said,  "Do  not  disturb  anything. 
Do  not  even  move,  except  for  calls 
of  nature.  You  may  open  one  win- 
dow, but  that  only  in  the  kitchen, 
on  the  leeward  side.  I shall  be 
there  in  one  hour  and  twelve  min- 
utes, unless  today  is  Saturday,  Sun- 
day or  a holiday,  in  which  case  I 
must  allow  six  minutes  more  to 
change  at  Jamaica." 

I assured  him  that  it  was  Tues- 
day, and,  some  thirty  seconds  be- 
fore the  appointed  time,  we  per- 
ceived a knock  on  the  door.  But 

when  my  friend  W went  to 

unlatch  it,  there  was  no  one  to  be 
seen.  The  threshold  was — empty! 
Precisely  thirty  seconds  later,  a 
shadowy  figure  appeared  in  the 
leeward  window  frame  and  let  it- 
self into  the  kitchen.  It  resolved 
itself  into  my  friend  DouxPain. 
The  mystery  is  resolved,"  he  said 
quietly. 


42 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


^*Buthow  , . , I began.  system  involving  the  emptiness  of 

'"Ratiocination  is,  in  itself,  a your  stomach,  the  function  of  the 
Science,*'  he  began,  so  quickly  table,  and  the  sight  of  the  succu- 
after  I myself  had  begun  that  I lent  grenouilles.** 
was  forced  to  put  an  end — how-  "In  other  words  . . . ?"  I be- 
ever  temporary — to  my  beginning,  gan. 

DouxPain  glanced  around  him,  as  DouxPain  merely  smiled.  "In 

if  eager  to  find  someone  to  dispute  other  words,  when  W finishes 

his  proposition,  but  there  was,  as  his  secret  repast,  his  Gallic  un- 
he  well  knew,  no  one.  "You,  conscious  seeks  a way  to  clear  the 

W , are  a Somnambulist,  debris.  But  his  unconscious,  which 

This  is  evident  from  the  papillotes  is  after  all  not  conscious,  cannot 
(however  well-shaped  they  may  be  expected  to  remember  that, 
be)  undpr  your  bloodshot  eyes,  without  frogs,  this  house  has  no 
Also,  your  funds  are  low,  as  evi-  electrical  power  and  that,  ergo, 
denced  by  the  fact  that  your  house  the  electrically-operated  garbage- 
is  bare  of  most  of  the  accustomed  disposal  unit,  indigenous  to  all 
amenities  but  a pack  of  cigarettes,  houses  on  the  Northern  Shore, 
two  chaises  longues,  a pallet,  and  cannot  operate.  If  I am  correct  in 
a few  kitchen  gadgets  that  I stepped  my  chain  of  deductions — and  I 
over  while  climbing  in.  We  need  am — you  will  find  in  the  kitchen 
look  no  further  for  a culprit  than  sink  both  the  evidence  for  the  reso- 

you  yourself,  W . Nightly  lution  of  this  mystery  and  the  ex- 

you  arise  from  your  uneasy  rest  planation  for  that  ghastly  stink 
(haunted  by  dreams  of  former  you  now  perceive.” 
riches)  and  pass  into  the  kitchen  With  a thin,  high-pitched  wail 
where,  by  the  glow  of  the  night-  that  sounded  like  a 51 -dewier  cri, 

light,  your  eyes  cannot  fail  to  fall  W raced  to  the  kitchen  sink, 

upon  the  faintly  chuckling  am-  We  followed  hard  on  his  heeb. 
phibians  on  the  dinner  plates  on  There,  in  a jumbled  heap  of  bones 
the  kitchen  table.  Being  of  French  and  cold  sauce  bechamel,  could  be 
mind  and  body,  your  unconscious  seen  an  unutterably  liquescent 
is  not  only  Ratiocinative,  but  als6  mass  of  glaucous  leftoversl  The 
eminently  practical,  and  no  doubt  frogs  in  question  were  indubitably 
it  instantly  constructs  a logical  — dead!  In  pace  requiescant! 


According  to  THOMAS,  the  computer  for  the  CIA,,  nothing  was 
impossible,  but  the  report  sent  by  the  Agency  s man  in  Uganda 
was  extremely  improbable,  by  an  order  of  more  than  a billion  to 
one.  Nevertheless,  a levitator  capable  of  lifting  a herd  of  twenty- 
five  cattle  would  certainly  be  capable  of  handling  more  dangerous 
payloads.  If,  of  course,  the  levitator  existed.  Here,  Thomas  Disch 
(come  to  VENUS  MELANCHOLY,  Nov.  1965)  spitis  an  inventive  tale 
about  a run-in  between  science  and  witchcraft  Which  comes  out 
on  top?  Read  on. 


DOUBTING  THOMAS 


by  Thomas  M.  Disch 


As  MOST  PEOPUS  SAW  HIM, 

THOMAS  seemed  to  be  not  at  all 
what  he  in  fact  was,  THOMAS 
was  a computer  for  the  C.LA.  He 
computed  the  Theoretical  Hap- 
pen-chance  of  Misreport  and 
Sham.  But  from  the  point  of  view 
of  Irving  Whitehall,  sitting  in  a 
cab  three  blocks  up  Pennsylvania 
Avenue,  THOMAS  looked  con- 
vincingly like  a tropical  garden. 

The  original  specifications  had 
called  for  nothing  more  than  a 
simple  basalt  cube,  rather  like  the 
Kaaba.  But  there  had  been  protests 
(860  pounds  in^ne  month  at  the 
height  of  it),  and  finally  Congress 
overruled  its  own  architectural 


committee,  who  still  Insisted  that 
the  Kaaba  they  had  planted  at  the 
foot  of  Pennsylvania  Avenue  was 
an  indispensable  element  in  the 
aesthetic  balance  of  the  Whole. 
There  had  been,  at  the  same  time, 
a new  crisis  in  West  Africa,  occa- 
sioned by  some  American  manu- 
facturers, and  Congress  was  able 
to  kill  two  birds  with  their  one  cu- 
bical stone:  they  ordered  a garden 
to  be  planted  on  and  about 
THOMAS,  which  garden  would 
allegorize  the  amity  between  the 
two  great  continents,  Africa  and 
North  America. 

Fortunately  for  the  sake  of  con- 
tinued amity,  THOMAS  generat- 


43 


44 

ed  quite  a bit  of  heat,  and  by  some 
careful  expedients  and  judicious 
gardening,  the  tropical  garden 
that  surrounded  the  sides  of  the 
cube  (Africa)  thrived  quite  as 
well  as  the  pine  forest  that 
crowned  its  top  (North  America). 
Whether  or  not  the  aesthetic  bal- 
ance of  the  Whole  had  been  upset 
was  a moot  point,  but  the  garden 
had  done  wonders  for  public  rela- 
tions : THOMAS  was  the  first  stop 
on  the  itinerary  of  all  the  Africans 
who  came  to  Washington — about 
200,000  per  annum. 

There  was  a party  of  them  there 
now.  Thirty  black  young  faces 
smiled  at  the  Polaroid  man. 

Whitehall  stepped  out  of  the 
cab  and  waited  for  the  meter  to 
spit  back  his  credit  card.  When  the 
card  was  returned,  a panel  on  the 
dashboard  lit  up:  Thank  you  for 
your  patronage.  I hope  you  en- 
joyed your  ride. 

'‘Oh,  you’re  quite  welcome,** 
Whitehall  replied,  and  the  cab 
drove  oflE. 

“HeUo,  Mr.  WhitehaU,**  the 
Polaroid  man  called  out. 

“Hello,  Benny.** 

The  Polaroid  man  turned  back 
to  his  group,  scowling.  “You  there 
— with  the  orchid  in  your  button- 
hole— move  over  to  the  left. 
You’re  blocking  the  person  behind 
you.  The  rest  of  you — look  straight 
ahead!” 

But,  of  course,  they  didn’t — 
not  at  least  until  they  had  seen  Ir- 
ving Whitehall  vanish  into  the 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

gloom  of  the  well-manicured  jun- 
gle. Whitehall  always  felt  like  a 
public  relations  exhibit  when  that 
sort  of  thing  happened.  Of  course, 
he  knew  that  he  had  worked  his 
way  up  in  the  Civil  Service  (and 
before  that  up  the  no  less  rigorous 
ascent  of  subsistence  scholarships 
towards  his  PhD)  without  once 
taking  advantage  of  his  skin  color. 
Even  in  clear-cut  cases  of  dis- 
crimination, he’d  said  nothing. 
Such  a charge,  if  it  were  not  prov- 
en, left  a black  mark  on  the  ac- 
cuser’s record,  and  if  proven,  it 
would  virtually  bring  an  end  to 
the  career  of  the  accused.  White- 
hall had  possessed  enough  confi- 
dence in  his  own  ability  to  be  gen- 
erous toward  those  he  passed  on 
the  way  up,  even  when  he  didn’t 
like  them.  His  confidence  had 
been  justified,  as  it  turned  out,  for 
Whitehall,  at  the  age  of  forty- 
three,  was  THOMAS’S  chief  nurse- 
maid and  programmer.  He  was,  so 
to  speak,  king  of  the  jungle. 

He  was  also  chief  liaison  and 
interpreter  between  the  great  com- 
puter and  the  great  bureaucracy 
which  possessed  it.  It  was  for  this 
reason  that  he  had  been  called 
back  from  a vacation  in  the  state 
of  Quebec  to  see  Dean  Toller,  Di- 
rector of  the  Central  Intelligence 
Agency  and  Whitehall’s  immedi- 
ate superior.  That  Toller  had  giv- 
en Whitehall  instructions  to  pro- 
ceed directly  to  his  own  (White- 
hall’s) ofiBce  was  a sign,  more  than 
the  interruption  of  his  vacation. 


DOUBTING  THOMAS 


45 


that  Toller  meant  business.  For 
Toller  was  the  sort  of  man  who, 
when  he  is  hstening  to  Bach  on 
stereo,  has  to  see  the  tape  unwind- 
ing in  the  machine.  And  when 
there  were  problems  with  THOM- 
AS, he  had  to  be  there,  in  White- 
hairs  office,  with  THOMAS  un- 
derfoot. 

Toller,  sitting  at  Whitehall's 
desk,  was  fuming.  Whitehall 
threw  a sympathetic  glance  at  his 
chief  aide,  Clabber,  and  the  other 
two  assistants  whom  Toller  had 
commandeered.  They  were  looking 
desperately  out-of-sorts.  They  had 
never  been  meant  for  liaison. 

Dean  Toller  got  up  from  behind 
the  desk,  growling  (one  learned 
eventually  to  discount  anything 
less  than  a tornado  from  Toller), 
and  advanced,  waving  a slender 
piece  of  ticker  tape  in  Whitehall's 
face.  It  was  a report  from  THOM- 
AS. 

'What's  this  mean,  Whitehall? 
Do  you  know  what  this  means? 
Will  you  kindly  teU  me  what  the 
hell  this  means?" 

Whitehall  took  the  slip  of  pa- 
per. It  read,  in  its  entirety:  Not 
Bloody  Likely, 

"It  means,  sir,  that  the  report  it 
received  is  extremely  improbable. 
The  order  of  probability  is  more 
than  a billion  to  one.  THOMAS 
can't  calculate  probabilities  of 
that  magnitude.  Or  improbabili- 
ties, I suppose  I should  say." 

‘Tou  mean  to  say — impossi- 

Ue," 


"Well,  as  nearly  as  THOMAS 
can  come  to  saying  so,  yes.  Strict- 
ly speaking,  I suppose  nothing  is 
impossible." 

"If  something's  impossible,  the 
machine  should  say  so,  Whitehall. 
In  any  case,  it  shouldn't  be  using 
dirty  language.  Bloody  is  a dirty 
word  in  England." 

'Tes  sir.  I suppose  it's  a little 
joke  on  the  part  of  the  person  who 
originally  programmed  the  ma- 
chine." 

"And  who  might  that  be?" 

"I  suppose  it  was  me,  sir." 

‘Tou  suppose?" 

"That's  a habit  of  speech  I've 
picked  up,  probably  from  working 
in  probabilities,  I suppose.  I did 
put  it  in  THOMAS,  but  I never 
expected  it  to  come  out  again. 
May  I ask  what  that  report  was 
about?  Perhaps  it  was  a joke?" 

"You  won't  believe  it,  White- 
hall." 

"Belief  isn't  part  of  my  job — 
only  probabilities." 

"Last  week  when  you  were  gone, 
a report  came  in  from  Uganda. 
I would  have  thought  Nesb — 
that  is  to  say,  our  man  in  Kampala 
— ^was  playing  a joke.  Except  that 
he  hasn't  any  sense  of  humor.  In 
fact,  Nesbit — that  is  to  say — " 

"Our  man  in  Kampala,"  Toller 
and  Whitehall  said  in  chorus. 

"Well,  damn  it  all,  Whitehall, 
you're  not  supposed  to  know  these 
men  except  by  code  number." 

“I  wouldn't  sir,  if  you  didn't  al- 
ways drop  their  names  around." 


46 

“Our  man  in  Kampala/’  Toller 
went  on  imperturbably,  “has  one 
of  the  highest  rehability  ratings  in 
the  service.  If  something  is  a ru- 
mor, Nesbit  says  so — and  he  usu- 
ally knows  just  how  much  faith  to 
put  in  it.  Clabber,  what  was  Nes- 
bit’s  coefficient  before  this?” 

“Point  eight  seven,  sir.  Only 
Sandbourne  in  Moscow  has  a 
higher  rating.” 

“Who?” 

“Agent  36-M,  sir.” 

“Watch  that.  Clabber.  Don’t 
use  the  agents’  names,  even  with 
me.  It’s  a bad  habit  to  get  into. 
Security  risks,  you  know.” 

Clabber,  by  one  slight  twitch  of 
the  eyebrow  and  a tightening  of 
the  skin  across  his  cheekbone,  in- 
dicated to  Whitehall  how  impos- 
sible Toller  was  to  deal  with. 
Whitehall  cocked  his  head  to  one 
side  and  pursed  his  lips,  a gesture 
which  served  equally  well  to  paci- 
fy his  aide  and  to  preface  his  ques- 
tion to  Toller: 

“And  what  was  the  report  that 
agent  9-K  sent  in?” 

“Nonsense.  Utter  nonsense.  He 
said  that  some  witch  doctors  in 
Uganda,  and  he  gave  their  names 
— they  live  out  in  the  Murchison 
Falls  reserve  where  that  sort  of 
thing  is  still  legal — that  these 
witch  doctors  have  made  a levi- 
tator — an  antigravity  machine, 
capable  of  lifting  ten  tons.” 

Despite  himself,  Whitehall  pro- 
nounced the  single,  definitive 
judgment:  'Impossible/* 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

“Or  as  THOMAS  puts  it— Not 
Bloody  Likely,  eh?  But  there  it  is. 
Nesbit  has,  or  had,  a reliability  rat- 
ing of  point  eight  seven.” 

“Who  was  his  informant?”  A 
hamadryad?” 

“He  didn’t  believe  his  inform- 
ant, so  he  managed  to  get  into  the 
reserve  himself — and  you  should 
see  his  expense  account!  Just  go- 
ing through  the  gate  cost  five  hun- 
dred dollars!  He  was  there  three 
weeks  and  claims  to  have  seen  the 
thing  himself.” 

“It  was  a trick.” 

“Nesbit  says  that  no  trickery 
was  possible.  It  was  done  in  the 
open.  The  platform  of  the  levita- 
tor  was  made  of  teakwood  planks, 
and  there  was  a lattice  of  bamboo 
that  served  as  a guardrail.  There 
was  no  motor  in  evidence.  The 
payload  was  a herd  of  about  twen- 
ty-five ankole  cattle.  Ten  tons,  ap- 
proximately. The  whole  shebang 
was  taken  up  to  a height  of  one 
hundred  feet,  well  above  the  tall- 
est of  the  trees  in  the  area.  Then 
it  began  to  move  laterally.  It  only 
came  down  after  there  was  an  ac- 
cident— one  of  the  cows  went 
over  the  guardrail  and  fell  to 
earth.  Nesbit  says  he  saw  the  cow 
afterward  and  gravity  had  made 
quite  an  effect  on  her.  The  whole 
operation,  which  lasted  twelve 
minutes,  was  conducted  by  two 
witch  doctors,  one  on  the  levita- 
tor,  one  on  the  ground,  helping. 
That’s  Nesbit  s whole  story.  What 
do  you  think?” 


DOUBTING  THOMAS 


47 


*'It  has  all  the  verisimilitude  of 
a Paul  Bunyan  yam.” 

‘'My  first  thought  was  to  send 
over  an  analyst.  I hate  to  call  Nes- 
bit  back  here,  because  he's  doing 
the  rest  of  the  work  well  enough. 
Except — ” 

“Except?” 

“That  this  thing  has  gotten 
THOMAS  and  our  whole  oper- 
ation completely  fouled  up.  Nes- 
bit's  rating  has  gone  down  as  fast 
as  the  cow  that  fell  out  of  the  levi- 
tator.  As  of  right  now,  it  stands 
at  point  three  seven.  Can  you  im- 
agine what  that  does  to  the  reports 
he  sends  in.” 

“THOMAS  is  only  doing  what 
he's  programmed  to  do.  When  he 
calculates  the  probability  of  any 
given  report,  he  has  only  two  vari- 
ables to  work  with.  The  inherent 
probability  of  the  report  and  the 
reliability  of  the  person  making 
the  report.  I assume  that  THOM- 
AS has  changed  Nesbit's  rating  be- 
cause of  his  report  on  the  levita- 
tor.” 

“But  the  other  reports  Nesbit 
sends  in  are  getting  low  ratings 
now.  If  Nesbit  said  it  was  three 
o'clock  in  Uganda,  THOMAS 
would  doubt  his  word.  It's  a 
damned  nuisance.  Besides,  how 
can  THOMAS  know  that  the  levi- 
tator  report  is  false?  He's  prejudg- 
ing.” 

“Yes,  he'll  do  that  in  extreme 
cases.” 

“Whitehall,  have  you  thought 
that,  just  possibly,  Nesbit  is  nei- 


ther lying  nor  insane,  that  he  may 
have  seen  what  he  said  he  saw?” 

Whitehall  gave  Toller  a rather 
commiserating  look,  but  made  no 
reply.  It  was  remarkable,  he 
thought,  how  contagious  an  irra- 
tional idea  can  become.  Toller 
flushed  violently  and  ground  out 
his  cigar  in  the  ashtray. 

'Don't  give  me  that  pitying 
look.  Doctor  Whitehall.  I may  not 
have  got  beyond  freshman  year  in 
college,  but  by  God  Fm  your  su- 
perior and  you'll  answer  my  ques- 
tions.” 

“Well,  since  you  ask.  I'd  say 
that  antigravity  is  just  conceiv- 
ably possible.  It  supposes  another 
model  of  the  physical  universe 
than  the  one  we  have  now,  but 
we've  changed  models  before.  But 
that  a witch  doctor  should  be  the 
Newton  of  the  21st  Century?  Not 
Bloody  Likely.  It  goes  against  all 
of  Western  tradition  and  against 
my  own  personal  taste.  It's  anti- 
rational.  It's  antimathematical. 
Witchcraft  and  sympathetic  mag- 
ic work  by  analogy,  not  by  good 
old  cause-and-efiFect.  When  witch- 
craft has  been  effective,  it's  been 
through  the  power  of  suggestion. 
There  have  been  cases — ” 

“I  know  them  all.  What  dp  you 
think  I've  been  reading  about  this 
last  week?  But  what's  wrong  with 
working  by  analogy.  THOMAS 
works  by  analogies.” 

“So  he  does.  But  an  analogy 
computer  doesn't  cause  the  events 
it  simulates  mathematically  any 


48 

more  than  an  abacus  does  your 
laundry.  Pure  science  is  descrip- 
tive. Witchcraft  has  always  been 
prescriptive.” 

‘Well  then,  account  for  this: 
Monday  of  this  week  the  delegate 
to  the  U.N.  from  Uganda  com- 
plained about  violations  of  Ugan- 
dese  air  space.  Specifically,  he 
claimed  that  planes  flying  over  the 
Murchison  Falls  reserve  were  dis- 
turbing the  animals  there.” 

“It  may,  of  course,  have  been  a 
bona  fide  complaint.” 

“It  may.  There s also  this:  yes- 
terday, Sandbourne — ” 

“Agent  36-M,  don’t  vou  mean?” 
Clabber  interrupted.  The  remark 
was  quite  out  of  place,  and  White- 
hall’s look  said  as  much. 

“ — sent  in  a report  from  Mos- 
cow,” Toller  went  on.  “He  says 
that  seven  of  the  Soviet’s  best 
agents  have  been  taken  ofF  pres- 
ent assignments  and  are  being 
sent  to  Kampala.  Five  of  those 
agents  were  here  in  Washington, 
so  I’ve  been  able  to  confirm  that 
much  of  the  report.  The  Soviets 
seem  to  be  more  open  to  doubt  on 
the  subject  than  THOMAS.” 

“I  understand  that  the  Soviet 
premier  also  has  his  horoscope  told 
once  a week.  THOMAS  doesn’t,  as 
far  as  I know.” 

“But  you  will  have  to  admit 
that  something  seems  to  be  hap- 
pening in  the  Murchison  Falls 
reserve?” 

“Something.  Perhaps.** 

“But  when  I fed  the  new  data 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

into  THOMAS,  this  was  his  re- 
ply.” Toller  held  the  pink  slip  of 
paper  aloft.  “He  still  doesn’t  give 
the  report  one  chance  in  a bil- 
lion. Do  you  realize  all  the  things 
— the  quite  impossible  things — 
that  THOMAS  gave  a better 
chance  than  that?  Whitehall,  I 
began  to  think  that  your  baby  has 
an  Achilles  heel.” 

“It  may  be,”  Whitehall  began 
judiciously,  for  far-out  possibili- 
ties always  intrigued  him,  “that 
THOMAS  cannot,  in  his  very  na- 
ture, believe  in  witchcraft.  It  may 
be  deeper  than  a programming 
pattern.  THOMAS  is  a machine, 
after  all,  and  a machine  might  be 
said  to  have  an  absolute  faith  in 
cause-and-effect.  I believe  that 
faith  is  justified,  but  I’m  human 
enough  to  enjoy  a little  taste  of  the 
supernatural.  On  television,  late 
at  night,  usually.” 

“If  this  is  happening,  White- 
hall, it  isn’t  supernatural.  By  def- 
inition.” 

“Of  course,  of  course.” 

There  was  a long  silence  punc- 
tuated by  the  cracking  of  Clab- 
ber’s knuckles.  “Then  you  intend,” 
Whitehall  finally  said,  “to  send 
new  investigators  to  Kampala?  I 
don’t  know  what  sort  of  rating 
THOMAS  would  give  you  for  do- 
ing it,  but  I tend  to  agree.  But  I 
fail  to  understand,  since  your 
mind  was  made  up  before  I came 
back  and  probably  before  you 
called  me,  why  you  needed  to  con- 
sult with  me  at  all.” 


doubting  THOMAS 

•'Because  of  the  young  man  I 
want  to  send,  Whitehall.  Thomas 
Mwanga  Chwa.  You’re  going  to 
get  him  for  me." 

Medical  school,  traditionally, 
has  never  been  a snap,  and  a good 
engineering  college  can 'be  pretty 
rough.  But  when,  in  1985,  Har- 
vard Medical  School  and  the  Mas- 
sachusetts Institute  of  Technolo- 
gy pooled  their  joint  resources  and 
faculties  to  establish  The  Kenne- 
dy School  of  Servomechanical 
and  Micro-Surgery,  there  came 
upon  the  face  of  the  earth  not  just 
a new  kind  of  school  but  a new 
kind  of  student.  For  in  1985  mi- 
cro-surgery existed  only  as  an  idea 
which  could  not  be  realized  until 
there  were  enough  doctors  who 
thought  like  engineers  and  engi- 
neers who  understood  the  farther 
reaches  of  medicine  to  begin  the 
research.  Now  in  its  second  gen- 
eration, that  research  was  flourish- 
ing. 

Admission  to  The  Kennedy 
School  was  by  invitation;  its  invi- 
tations were  seldom  refused.  Ev- 
ery year  Life  magazine  did  an  ar- 
ticle on  the  freshman  class,  with 
short  biographies  of  twelve  of  the 
new  students.  Some  of  the  biog- 
raphies seemed,  as  the  saying  goes, 
not  bloody  likely.  Take  the  case, 
for  instance,  of  Thomas  Mwanga 
Chwa. 

Thomas  Mwanga  Chwa  was  the 
eldest  son  of  a Buganda  witch  doc- 
tor, who  was  himself  descended 


49 

from  the  Kabaka  Mwanga,  heredi- 
tary ruler  of  Buganda,  the  chief  of 
Uganda's  four  provinces.  At  age 
seven,  the  son  of  the  witch  doctor 
converted  to  Catholicism  and  ran 
away  to  Kampala,  the  capital  city. 
In  the  Jesuit  orphanage  where  he 
took  refuge,  Thomas'  education 
consisted  of  large  doses  of  Ac- 
quinas,  and,  when  his  grounding 
in  the  faith  was  secure,  of  Plato, 
Aristotle,  Augustine,  and  even 
such  modem  philosophers  as  Des- 
cartes, Pascal,  or  even  Voltaire 
whom  the  fathers  deemed  no  long- 
er dangerous. 

Then,  at  age  twelve,  Thomas 
discovered  logical  positivism. 
Clandestinely,  he  read  through 
Russell,  Wittgenstein,  and  Ayers. 
It  was  like  a second  conversion. 
Till  that  time,  Thomas  Mwanga 
Chwa  had  had  little  physics  and 
less  chemistry.  His  math  was 
sound  but  out-of-date,  and  his  bi- 
ology was  strictly  intuitive.  In  the 
next  five  years  he  remedied  those 
deficiencies  to  the  degree  that, 
when  he  took  the  Scholastic 
Achievement  Tests  sponsored  in 
Kampala  by  the  Peace  Corps  Of- 
fice, Thomas  Mwanga  Chwa  re- 
ceived, in  both  physics  and  biol- 
ogy, the  second-highest  scores  in 
the  world.  The  invitation  to  at- 
tend The  Kennedy  School  was  au- 
tomatic. Thomas  accepted  almost 
as  automatically. 

But  even  for  Thomas  Mwanga 
Chwa,  The  Kennedy  School  was 
no  snap.  Always  before  he  had 


50 

studied  at  his  own  pace,  which 
had  been  fast  enough  but  rather 
eccentric.  At  The  Kennedy  School 
he  had  to  keep  in  step  even  when 
he  was  running.  He  thought  that 
he  hated  every  minute  of  it,  while 
in  fact  he  was  in  love  with  the 
ordeal.  The  whirlwind  of  ideas  at 
the  school  had  put  him  at  times 
almost  into  a trance-state. 

For  a wonder,  he  even  made  a 
few  friends. 

Of  course,  like  all  the  students 
at  The  Kennedy  School,  he  was 
asked  everywhere:  to  U.N.  din- 
ners in  New  York;  to  the  Peace 
Corps*  Annual  Masquerade  at  the 
Plaza;  to  all  the  important  occa- 
sions in  Boston.  Like  all  the  other 
students,  he  reluctantly  had  to 
turn  down  these  invitations.  Only 
in  his  first  weeks  at  the  school,  be- 
fore he*d  learned  the  ropes,  had  he 
gone  to  one  of  these  dinners.  Dr. 
Irving  Whitehall  of  Philadelphia 
(the  Whitehalls  had  been  leaders 
in  the  great  Freedom-Now  move- 
ment of  the  last  century)  had  in- 
vited him  to  a gathering  of  Phila- 
delphia’s better  sort.  It  had 
been  pleasant  enough:  Whitehall 
proved  an  engaging  conversation- 
alist, and  he  and  Thomas  argued 
at  length  about  the  role  of  the 
church  in  African  politics. 
(Thomas  had  become  by  now — 
and  rather  ungratefully — 
something  of  an  anticleric.)  At 
the  end  of  the  evening,  Whitehall 
had  warned  him  of  the  dangers  of 
being  lionized. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

And  now  look  what  had  hap- 
pened : it  was  two  weeks  before  fi- 
nal exams,  it  was  two  o’clock  in 
the  morning,  and  Dr.  Whitehall 
was  downstairs  in  the  visitors’ 
room,  insisting  that  he  see  Thom- 
as at  once.  It  was  a pain  in  the 
neck! 

It  was  also,  intriguingly,  odd. 

Whitehall,  when  Thomas  came 
down,  offered  only  the  most  per- 
functory greetings  and  whisked 
him  off  to  his  limosine  outside. 
“Security,”  he  explained.  “We 
can’t  forget  that,  can  we?” 

Thomas  naturally  distrusted 
any  limitations,  for  whatever  rea- 
son, on  what  he  could  say  or  think 
or  do.  His  father  had  called  them 
“taboos,”  and  at  the  orphanage 
they  were  “occasions  of  sin.”  Now 
it  was  “security.”  Still,  when 
Whitehead  pronounced  that  word 
there  was  on  his  lips  the  hint  of  a 
smile,  which  suggested  that  the 
two  of  them  really  shouldn’t  be 
bothered  by  such  things;  that  they 
were  not  slkves  of  duty,  even  when 
they  did  what  duty  required.  It 
was  hard  to  dislike  the  man. 

“Thomas,  my  boy,  I have  a story 
to  tell  you  and  a favor  to  ask,* 
Whitehall  began,  once  their  se- 
curity was  assured  and  the  limou- 
sine was  purring  smoothly  through 
the  glass  canyons  of  downtown 
Boston.  “The  favor  isn’t  personal, 
and  if  you  can’t  help  us,  you’ll  be 
hurting  the  government’s  feelings, 
not  mine.”  With  suitable  expurga- 
tions, Whitehall  told  Thomas  the 


DOUBTING  THOMAS 

Story  Nesblt  had  sent  in  from 
Uganda.  "Of  course/'  he  conclud- 
ed, "it's  all  an  enormous  fraud." 

‘'Of  course.  What  he  probably 
saw  was  a balloon  ascent.  Or  some- 
thing." 

‘Tes,  I agree:  or  something. 
Perhaps — and  this  is  only  a wild 
theory — perhaps  the  Bugandi  are 
intending  to  make  their  big  bid 
for  power,  and  they  think  that  a 
levitator,  even  the  idea  of  one,  is 
a juju  stronger  than  the  Parlia- 
ment army.  A machine  that  can 
drop  ankole  cattle  can  drop 
bombs.  Unless  the  rumor  is 
squelched,  it  could  be  almost  as 
effective  as  the  real  thing — at 
least  for  as  long  as  it  takes  to  pull 
a coiip.  Rumor  is  a powerful  weap- 
on." 

"And  you  think  my  father  has  a 
hand  in  this,  is  that  it?" 

"Our  agent  claims  to  have  seen 
your  father  go  up  in  the  levitator." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  Fiddlesticks  was 
the  definitive  word  that  year  at 
The  Kennedy  School  for  gross  im- 
probabilities. 

"We  would  like  to  be  able  to 
agree,  but  we  must  know  exactly 
what  is  afoot.  That’s  why  we  come 
to  you.  We  assume  that  your  sym- 
pathies are  with  the  legitimate 
government,  not  with  the  Bugan- 
di." 

"In  short,  you  want  me  to  spy 
on  my  own  father,  whom  I haven't 
seen  since  the  age  of  seven.  We 
aren't  on  very  good  terms,  you 
know.  I doubt  that  he’d  recognize 


51 

me.  In  any  case,  I can’t  interrupt 
my  studies." 

"Your  finals  are  in  two  weeks. 
We  can  wait  that  long.  As  for  his 
liking  you,  rest  assured  that  he 
wiD.  You're  in  the  privileged  po- 
sition of  a prodigal  son." 

"I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Whitehall,  that 
you  don’t  understand.  I refuse  to 

go-" 

"Of  course,  you'll  be  well  paid.*’ 

"No,  Mr.  Whitehall!  I won't  go. 
I refuse — categorically.  Now, 
if  you'll  take  me  back  to  the 
dorm  . . ." 

"But  you  don't  give  any  reason 
for  refusing.  I really  must  have  a 
reason." 

"My  distaste — " 

" — isn't  reason  enough,  Thom- 
as. Too  much  may  be  at  stake." 

"I  hate  Uganda.  I hate  the  jun- 
gle. I hate — 

"Yes,  Thomas,  what  do  you 
hate?" 

^^y  father,"  Thomas  Mwanga 
Chwa  replied  quietly. 

"Oh  well,  in  that  case,  I can't 
insist."  Whitehall  directed  the 
driver  to  return  to  The  Kennedy 
School,  and  then,  turning  back  to 
the  witch  doctor's  son,  asked,  in 
a tone  of  feigned  and  friendly  in- 
terest, how  his  classes  were  com- 
ing. 

"Well  enough,  thank  you.’’ 

So,  on  the  way  back,  Thomas 
described  the  first-year  study  pro- 
gram, his  teachers,  and  such  of  the 
other  students  as  he  had  noticed. 
By  the  time  they  returned  to  the 


52 

dormitory,  Thomas  waxed  so  con- 
fidential as  to  reveal  his  single 
peeve — the  time  that  had  to  be 
wasted  in  Enghsh.  ‘‘As  if  I were 
illiterate!” 

Whitehall  laughed  agreeably. 
“Lots  of  luck,  Thomas,”  he  called 
out  of  the  window  of  the  moving 
car.  Instead  of,  simply,  “Good- 
bye.” 

Lots  of  luck?  That  was  an  odd 
thing,  Thomas  thought,  for  him  to 
say. 

But  as  it  turned  out,  it  wasn't 
odd  at  all.  Thomas  flunked  his  fi- 
nal in  English.  He  simply  hadn't 
bothered  to  read  the  novels  as- 
signed for  the  course,  confident 
that  he  could  blufiF  his  way  to  a C 
with  synopses  and  lecture  notes. 
Yes,  he  needed  luck  now. 

In  consequence  of  this  one  fail- 
ure— his  other  marks  were  in  the 
upper  ten  per  cent  of  his  class 
where  they  belonged — Thomas 
was  threatened  with  explusion.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  his  memory 
that  he  had  really  failed  at  any- 
thing, and  he  became  suddenly 
aware  that  it  was  only  through  the 
good  graces  of  people  he  had  never 
met  and  institutions  he  only  knew 
the  names  of  that  he  had  been 
able  even  to  enter  The  Kennedy 
School.  The  awareness  that  he  was 
an  alien  in  Boston,  that  his  coun- 
try was  Uganda  (Uganda,  he 
would  die  if  he  ever  had  to  go  back 
to  live  there!) — this  awareness 
was  humiliating,  but  not  without 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

its  lesson.  If  Thomas  hoped  to  live 
and  work  at  The  Kennedy  School 
(and  he  had  no  other  hope  in  the 
world),  he  had  better  do  more 
than  read  the  required  books  for 
his  English  course. 

He  had  better  cooperate. 

So  it  was  that  he  saw  Whitehall 
for  a third  time.  Thomas  didn't 
beat  around  the  bush.  In  exchange 
for  his  services  for  the  C.I.A.  he 
extracted  a promise  to  be  allowed 
to  apply  for  U.S.  naturalization 
papers.  If  he  passed  a simple  test 
of  literacy  he  would  become  a citi- 
zen before  he  had  graduated  from 
The  Kennedy  School.  Quite  inci- 
dentally, the  matter  of  the  English 
exam  was  also  straightened  out 
wdth  Whitehall's  help. 

Whitehall  regretted  manipulat- 
ing people  this  way,  especially  peo- 
ple like  Thomas,  whom  he  liked. 
He  consoled  himself  that  it  was 
Toller  and  not  he  who  had 
dreamed  the  thing  up — except  for 
one  detail:  the  bogus  question  on 
Thomas'  English  test.  That  had 
been  his  own  contribution. 

Kampala,  like  Rome,  is  built 
upon  seven  hills.  One  of  these 
hills  is  still,  for  the  sake  of  tradi- 
tions, crowned  by  the  grass- 
thatched  mausoleum  of  the  Ka- 
bakas,  but  elsewhere  the  influence 
of  the  old  masters  of  Uganda  had 
been  displaced  by  the  astonishing 
neo-Roman  “renaissance”  of  mod- 
ern times,  for  which  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  must  receive  full 


DOUBTING  THOMAS 


53 


credit.  In  the  census  of  2020, 
fully  one  half  of  the  native  popu- 
lation of  the  country  was  found  to 
be  Catholic,  and  the  ever-increas- 
ing strength  of  the  Catholic-Agra- 
rian League  in  the  Parliament  in- 
dicates that  the  growth  of  Cathol- 
icism in  Uganda  has  not  abated. 

Almost  everyone  had  profited 
from  this  renaissance — except  the 
Bugandi,  who  had,  in  the  last 
half  of  the  20th  Century,  them- 
selves controlled  the  government. 
Their  policy  had  followed  the 
usual  course  of  African  National- 
ism: once  they  had  achieved  self- 
government  they  had  found  them- 
selves adrift  in  history  without 
program  or  prospects.  Theirs  had 
been  an  essentially  conservative 
movement,  and  the  ideal  they  had 
wished  to  preserve  was  primitiv- 
ism— or,  which  is  almost  the  same 
thing,  anti-Westernism.  Their 
greatest  political  strength  lay  in 
the  villages,  but  more  and  more, 
the  youngest,  brightest  villagers 
were  moving  to  the  cities. 

As  the  more  progressive  ele- 
ments of  the  Bugandi  were  con- 
verted to  Catholicism  and  were  in 
other  ways  Westernized,  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Bugandi  waned.  Soon 
there  were  new  laws  against  the 
old  ways:  English  was  to  be  the 
official  language  for  schools  and 
courts;  the  native  mode  of  dress — 
or  of  undress,  in  this  case — was 
outlawed  '‘for  decency's  sake"; 
building  and  sanitary  codes  were 
forced  upon  the  reluctant  villages 


and  either  ruined  them  or  turned 
them  into  towns.  Naturally, 
witchcraft  became  a criminal  of- 
fense. , 

The  Murchison  Falls  reserve 
alone  was  exempted  from  these 
blue  laws,  and  so  the  die-hard  ele- 
ments of  the  Bugandi  spread  out 
over  the  1,200  square  miles  of  the 
reserve  and  waited  to  become  ex- 
tinct along  with  the  other  inhabi- 
tants of  the  reserve:  the  black  rhi- 
nosceros,  the  oribi,  and  the  crest- 
ed crane,  once  the  symbol  of  the 
nation,  now  only  the  totem  of  a 
tribe. 

Inside  the  reserve  s well-guard- 
ed borders  tlie  Bugandi  were  al- 
lowed, even  encouraged,  to  be  as 
primitive  as  they  liked,  for  this 
was  one  of  the  last  havens  of  the 
anthropologist.  Here  there  was  no 
medicine  but  the  medicine  of  the 
witch  doctor;  no  missionaries;  not 
even  metal  plows  or  plastic  but- 
tons. There  were,  however,  strict 
game  quotas,  but  the  Bugandi  had 
always  been  herdsmen,  and  their 
sheep  and  ankole  cattle  roamed 
freely  through  the  grasslands  of  the 
reserve. 

The  ride  from  the  airfield  at 
Kampala  to  the  reserve  was  no 
more  than  three  hours.  The  roads 
were  good,  and  the  farms  at  the 
side  of  the  road  were  thriving.  The 
weather  was  balmy,  and  the  air, 
after  a year  in  Boston,  smelled 
good  in  Thomas'  nostrils. 

But  he  did  not  feel  good,  far 
from  it.  The  prospect  of  confront- 


54 

ing  his  father  after  more  than  a 
decade  distressed  him.  This  dis- 
tress had  mounted  from  being 
merely  psychological  at  takeoflE 
time  at  LaGuardia  to  a mild  fever 
here  on  the  highway  approaching 
the  reserve.  Of  course,  it  might  be 
just  the  altitude.  His  father  on  the 
other  hand  might  say  he  had 
caught  a dose  of  the  evil  eye. 

Would  his  father  say  that?  It 
had  been  so  long  since  he  had  seen 
him  and  his  own  environment  had 
been  so  different  in  the  meantime 
that  he  did  not  know  what  to  ex- 
pect of  his  father.  His  ideas  of 
witch  doctors  and  primitive  peo- 
ples had  come  from  movies  and 
cartoons  in  The  New  Yorker;  the 
experiences  of  his  own  early  child- 
hood he  had  almost  completely 
repressed. 

As  the  limousine  moved  into 
wilder  looking  country,  Thomas’ 
stomach  tightened  into  a tense, 
miserable  knot  of  unreasoning 
anxiety.  He  felt  the  beginnings  of 
a grand  headache. 

At  the  gate  to  Murchison  Falls 
reserve  there  was  a minimum  of 
fuss,  since  Thomas*  papers  had 
preceded  him.  He  had,  ignomini- 
ously,  to  leave  his  European 
clothes  at  the  guardhouse  and  en- 
ter the  reserve  wrapped  in  a 
scratchy  woolen  blanket.  His  feet, 
which  customarily  were  bare  only 
when  he  was  in  bed,  tested  the 
texture  of  the  dirt  path  tentatively, 
just  as  a man  would  test  the  wa- 
ter before  entering  it.  Then,  with 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

a wan  smile  at  the  gate  keepers 
and  the  driver  of  the  limousine,  he 
walked  into  the  jungle. 

He  had  studied  a map  of  the  re- 
serve and  knew  how  to  find  his  fa- 
ther’s village.  But  a map  is  in  two 
dimensions  and  a jungle  is  decid- 
edly in  three.  TTiroughout  his 
school  years,  as  a part  of  the  civili- 
zing process,  the  good  fathers  at 
the  orphanage  had  constantly 
warned  their  charges  against  the 
Wild  (including  any  wildness 
they  might  yet  harbor  within 
themselves),  and  Thomas,  recep- 
tive as  ever,  had  developed  a con- 
siderable phobia  for  jungles,  and 
particularly  for  snakes.  Now  every 
creeper  that  brushed  against  his 
bare  shoulder  sent  a thrill  of  fear 
through  his  body.  It  was  transpar- 
ently Freudian,  and  yet  there  it 
was — and  reason  could  do  little 
against  it. 

The  light  in  the  jungle  was  ir- 
regular, now  intensely,  painfully 
bright,  and  then,  after  a turn  in 
the  path,  of  a gloomy  greenness 
suddenly  like  twilight.  The  shapes 
of  trees  and  plants  and  hanging 
\dnes  were  ambiguous,  and  his 
fear  grew;  there  were  sounds  to 
which  he  could  assign  no  interpre- 
tation, and  his  fear  grew  deeper. 

Then  there  was  a sound  that  he 
recognized  quite  well:  the  drums. 
If  he  had  ever  understood  their 
language,  he  had  long  since  for- 
gotten it,  but  doubtless  they  were 
announcing  his  visit. 

His  first  impression  of  the  vil- 


doubting  THOMAS 

lage,  when  it  appeared  in  a burst 
of  sunlight  after  a sharp  twist  in 
the  path,  was  not  of  the  squalor 
(he  had  been  steeling  himself  to 
expect  that)  but  of  its  beauty,  al- 
most of  a sort  of  splendor.  He  knew 
that  this  was  just  the  shock  of  rec- 
ognition. Still,  it  was  something 
he  had  not  expected,  and  momen- 
tarily he  was  unmanned. 

From  the  largest  of  the  grass- 
thatched  huts  emerged  a party  of 
the  older  men  of  the  village. 
Thomas  suspected  that  the  figure 
who  led  them  was  his  father,  if 
only  because  he  did  lead  them. 
But  the  man's  face  was  so  overlain 
with  paint,  his  head  so  bristling 
with  feathers  that  if  he  had  been 
Whitehall,  Thomas  would  not 
have  been  able  to  recognize  him. 

The  man  spoke,  and  the  sound 
of  that  tongue,  unheard  for  so 
many  years,  was  like  a sword  cut- 
ting through  the  knot  of  his  stom- 
ach: ‘'Mwanga  Chwa,  you  have  re- 
turned, as  it  has  been  foretold." 

"Only,"  Thomas  replied  falter- 
ingly,  "only  for  a visit."  But  then 
he  had  to  correct  himself,  for  the 
word  he  had  used  for  "visit"  was 
not  without  a derogatory  connota- 
tion in  the  old  language.  "Only  for 
awhile." 

"Yes,  he  has  returned.  For  did 
not  I myself  draw  the  circle  and 
bring  within  it  the  very  image  of 
Mwanga  Chwa?"  The  convocation 
of  elders  nodded  agreement,  and 
Thomas'  father  (there  was  no 
doubt  that  it  was  he)  withdrew 


55 

from  a leather  bag  around  his  neck 
a mangled  photo  of  Thomas 
clipped  from  the  article  in  Life. 
He  handed  it  to  Thomas. 

"Wouldn't  fingernail  parings 
work  better?"  he  asked  sarcastical- 

ly- 

Solemnly  the  old  man  with- 
drew a shriveled  scrap  of  organic 
matter  from  the  same  bag:  Thom- 
as, like  David  Copperfield,  had 
been  born  with  a caul. 

He  blushed.  "Father,"  he  said, 
though  in  English,  "please  be  rea- 
sonable." 

The  old  man  took  back  the  pic- 
ture and  wrapped  it  about  the 
shriveled  caul  and  placed  both 
back  in  the  bag. 

It  was  not  his  father  who  was 
being  unreasonable:  he  was  only 
being  himself.  Thomas  himself 
was  over-reacting.  He  ofiFered  a 
conciliatory  hand  for  his  father  to 
shake,  which  the  old  man  grasped 
with  surprising  firmness.  Then  be- 
fore he  knew  what  had  happened, 
Thomas  found  himself  on  his  back 
in  the  dust,  surrounded  by  a 
throng  of  laughing  old  men.  He 
was  aghast,  then  slowly  he  began 
to  see  the  humor  of  the  joke  and 
even  began  to  laugh,  if  rather 
weakly. 

Rising  to  his  knees,  Mwanga 
Chwa  kissed  his  father’s  hand,  as 
in  all  conscience  any  son  was 
obliged  to  do.  It  made  him  feel  al- 
most ill  to  perform  the  simple  cer- 
emony of  obeisance.  Though  1 kiss 
his  hand,  Thomas  told  himself. 


56 

rather  jesuitically,  I yield  nothing 
to  him,  nothing.  A Sacrament 
needs  both  form  and  inten- 
tion, and  Thomas  was  keeping  his 
intentions  to  himself. 

Then  his  father,  from  out  the 
crowd  of  elders,  drew  forth  a 
young  man,  more  or  less  Thomas* 
peer,  but  dressed  like  the  witch 
doctor  in  paint  and  feathers — his 
apprentice,  seemingly.  He  was 
scowling,  and  he  approached 
Thomas  with  great  reluctance. 

'This,  Mwanga  Chwa,**  his  fa- 
ther said,  "is  my  huk/* 

Thomas  ventured  to  say  hello, 
though  he  kept  his  hands  at  his 
side.  "Hello,  Huck,”  he  said  po- 
litely in  his  father’s  tongue. 

The  young  man’s  scowl  grew 
more  severe.  Huck  refused  to  get 
down  on  his  knees  until  the  old 
man  had  given  him  a poke  in  the 
ribs  with  his  medicine  stick.  Then 
he  bent  over  and  kissed  Thomas’ 
foot.  It  was  profoundly  embarrass- 
ing. 

His  father’s  hukl  Now  the  word 
came  back  to  him:  Huck  was  his 
father’s  bastard!  The  prodigal’s 
brother  (in  this  case,  his  half- 
brother),  true  to  the  parable,  was 
not  at  all  pleased  to  welcome  the 
prodigal  home. 

That  night  the  fatted  calf  was 
gotten  out,  and  Thomas,  at  the 
right  hand  of  his  father,  drank 
large  draughts  of  palm  wine  and 
ate  the  hot  gobbets  of  meat  widi 
his  fingers,  even  when  it  hurt.  He 
was  introduced  to  a bewildering 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

succession  of  uncles,  cousins,  and 
brothers,  legitimate  and  otherwise, 
and  for  as  long  as  the  feasting  last- 
ed they  were  all  one  big  happy 
family. 

All,  excepting  Huck.  He  sat  at 
the  foot  of  the  table  and  matched 
his  brother  cup  for  cup,  while  the 
furrows  in  his  brow  grew  deeper 
and  deeper.  At  intervals  he  would 
shout  something  Thomas  couldn’t 
catch.  Then,  very  late,  he  got  up 
and  did  some  very  gymnastic  sort 
of  dance,  which  Thomas  admired 
greatly,  for  at  that  point  he  doubt- 
ed whether  he  could  have  done  a 
fox  trot.  His  father,  however,  was 
not  at  all  pleased  by  this  demon- 
stration. He  rose  from  the  table 
and  dismissed  Huck  from  their 
company  with  a deliberate,  low- 
down  kick.  The  elders  laughed. 

A few  minutes  later  Thomas  ex- 
cused himself  to  go  out  and  vomit. 
When  it  was  all  out  of  his  system, 
he  became  aware  that  he  was  not 
alone.  Huck  had  joined  him.  In 
silence  and  darkness  the  half- 
brothers  regarded  each  other. 
Thomas  made  a very  tentative 
smile.  With  a lunge,  and  be- 
fore Thomas  could  realize  his  in- 
tentions, Huck  had  caught  his  foot 
and  sunk  his  teeth  into  the  exact 
spot  where,  earlier,  he  had  planted 
his  dutiful  kiss.  Thomas  was  both 
too  drunk  and  too  startled  to  feel 
much  pain.  What  the  hell  I he 
swore  meagerly.  Huck  darted  back 
into  the  darkness,  smiling,  with 
blood  on  his  lips. 


DOUBTING  THOMAS 

Thomas  was  not  an  expert  at  in- 
terpreting his  own  feelings.  Gen- 
erally he  distrusted  them  because 
they  were  so  changeable  and  tried 
to  think  of  them  as  httle  as  he 
could.  Sometimes  though,  despite 
his  best  efforts,  they  would  intrude 
themselves  on  his  consciousness 
and  insist  on  being,  if  not  dealt 
with,  noticed.  So  it  had  been  that 
night  three  weeks  ago  in  White- 
halls  car;  so  it  was  now.  Now  he 
realized  that  the  feeling  he  had 
defined  for  Whitehall  as  hatred 
was  something  entirely  different: 
it  was  fear.  He  feared  his  father. 
Was  that  it  exactly?  Or  did  he 
fear,  rather,  recognizing  just  what 
he  did  feel  toward  his  fatfier?  And 
what  then  would  that  be? 

If  only  there  had  been  some- 
thing else  to  think  about!  But 
without  books,  without  civilized 
companions  to  talk  with,  he  could 
do  nothing  but  introspect.  It  was 
depressing — and  it  was  dull,  so 
dull.  The  sheer  tedium  of  the  vil- 
lage fife,  which  even  at  the  age  of 
six  Thomas  had  not  been  able  to 
endure,  grew  steadily  more  op- 
pressive once  the  spirit  of  the  feast 
was  past.  Thomas  had  not  yet 
broached  the  subject  of  the  levi- 
tator — or  whatever  it  was — hop- 
ing that  his  father  would  take  the 
initiative.  When  he  didn't,  Thom- 
as could  think  of  no  way  to  open 
the  subject  without  revealing  the 
real  purpose  of  his  visit.  He  fol- 
lowed his  father  everywhere,  hop- 
ing that  sheer  persistence  would 


57 

lead  to  the  levitator,  and  yet  he 
soon  had  the  feeling  that  his  fa- 
ther was  keeping  an  eye  on  him. 

There  were  other  times,  at  mid- 
day usually,  when  the  old  man 
would  just  sit  there,  his  eyes  fo- 
cused on  vacuity;  Thomas  could- 
n't stand  this.  The  habit  of  civili- 
zation, of  being  always  occupied, 
was  too  strong  in  him.  But  the  con- 
versations he  had  with  his  father 
were  even  more  infuriating,  for 
like  a true  witch  doctor  he  was  im- 
pervious to  logical  consideration. 
In  any  case,  there  was  only  one 
subject  he  would  discuss : his  son's 
apprenticeship. 

“Mwanga  Chwa,"  the  old  man 
would  say,  pulling  some  dessicat- 
ed  leaves  from  a pouch  that  hung 
at  his  side,  ‘'it  is  the  time  of  your 
education.  You  are  very  old  to  be 
so  ignorant." 

“Thank  you,  father,  but  my  ed- 
ucation is  already  coming  out  my 
ears." 

The  old  man  regarded  his  son's 
ears  with  momentary  curiosity. 
“Today  I will  teach  to  you  a very 
powerful  protection  against  the 
curse  of  your  enemy." 

“Oh,  I don't  have  enemies." 

"Then  who  left  the  marks  of  his 
teeth  on  your  foot?" 

“Huck  was  just  drunk.  He  has- 
n't troubled  me  since  that  night." 

"It  is  because  he  does  not  be- 
lieve you  will  stay  here  with  us. 
He  does  not  believe  you  have  come 
to  take  his  place." 

“I  haven't.  I won't." 


58 

“Mwanga  Chwa,  you  ti^ilir 
This,  with  a rap  of  his  medicine 
stick  on  Thomas’  close-cropped, 
black  skull.  At  that  moment  the 
witch  doctor  looked  for  all  the 
world  like  Irving  Whitehall. 

“No.  Never.  Absolutely  not.  I 
refuser  When  they  reached  this 
point  in  their  conversation,  his  fa- 
ther would  sink  back  into  that 
deadly,  enervating,  smug  silence. 
Thomas  knew  he  was  being  worn 
down. 

“Mwanga  Chwa,”  his  father  be- 
gan on  the  fourth  day  of  his  visit, 
“my  son,  it  is  the  wooden  bird  that 
you  have  come  here  to  see,  is  it  not 
true?” 

Earlier  Thomas  would  have 
been  flustered,  but  he  had  had 
time  enough  to  see  that  his  father, 
though  illogical,  was  shrewd,  ^t 
is  quite  true.  And  is  there  a wood- 
en bird?  And  does  it  fly?  And  how 
does  it  fly?” 

“It  will  be  a great  weapon 
against  our  enemies,  my  son.  Yes, 
and  when  the  people  of  the  city  see 
the  wooden  birds  flying  above 
them  and  see  the  fire  falling  from 
the  sky,  they  will  understand  the 
power  of  the  Bugandi,  and  witch- 
craft will  take  back  the  seven  hills 
and  destroy  the  churches  the  Ro- 
mans have  built  there.  All  Africa 
will  honor  the  power  of  the  Bu- 
gandi.” 

Thomas  could  not  help  but 
smile  at  the  Napoleonic  grandeur 
of  the  undertaking.  Probably,  he 
thought,  it  was  this  chimera  that 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

was  giving  the  reserve  the  strength 
to  continue  in  the  face  of  all  the 
forces  arrayed  against  it.  ‘Yes,”  he 
said,  “it  may  well  do  all  that — if 
the  thing  can  get  off  the  ground.” 

“Just  as  you  yourself,  Mwanga 
Chwa,”  the  old  man  went  on,  ig- 
noring as  usual  Thomas’  contribu- 
tion to  the  conversation,  “will  un- 
derstand the  power  of  witchcraft.” 
He  looked  into  his  son’s  eyes  with 
such  a deadly  intensity  then  that 
Thomas  could  not  sustain  the 
gaze;  his  eyes  fell  to  the  image  that 
file  old  man  held  in  his  hands  and 
through  which  he  shoved,  that 
very  moment,  a long,  bone  needle. 
There  was  a stabbing  pain  in 
Thomas’s  stomach,  but  pride  kept 
him  from  crying  aloud.  The  old 
man  twisted  fiie  needle  in  the  wax 
doll,  and  sweat  sprang  out  on 
Thomas’  forehead. 

“Forgive  me,  my  son,  but  you 
must  learn  now  the  power  of 
witchcraft.  For  only  when  you  be- 
lieve, will  the  wooden  bird  rise. 
And  now  you  do  not  believe,” 

It  was  just  at  this  time,  while 
Thomas  was  lying  in  bed  (or,  more 
literally,  on  a pallet)  with  a mul- 
titude of  obscure  ailments,  that 
the  headline  came  out  in  the 
Washington  papers:  UGANDA 
INVENTS  ANTIGRAVITYI  The 
story  was  slightly  garbled,  but  its 
outlines  were  clearly  those  which 
Thomas  had  heard  from  White- 
hall. Thus  Whitehall’s  first  suspi- 
cion fell  on  his  novice  agent,  but 


doubting  THOMAS 


59 


when,  within  a few  hours  of  the 
news  break,  Clabber,  his  chief 
aide,  tendered  his  resignation, 
Whitehall’s  suspicions  rested  at 
last  on  that  party. 

Nothing  could  be  proven,  and 
to  a degree  Whitehall  even  sym- 
pathized with  the  foolish  fellow. 
The  money  he  could  have  received 
for  his  story  could  hardly  have 
been  sufficient  to  compensate  for 
the  position  he  was  losing.  Clab- 
ber might  be  said  therefore  to  be 
acting  on  principle — even  if  that 
principle  was  no  larger  than  re- 
venge on  the  way  he  had  been 
dealt  with  by  Toller.  It  was  just 
as  well  that  Clabber  was  leaving 
— despite  the  fact  that  he  knew 
THOMAS’  ways  better  than  anyone 
but  Whitehall  himself.  In  the 
Civil  Service  one  must  learn  to 
live  with  petty  tyrants  like  Toller, 
for  one  man’s  petty  tyrant  was  a 
department’s  good  administrator. 

Clabber  had  precipitated  a cri- 
sis though,  and  the  crisis  had  to  be 
dealt  with.  The  morning  after  the 
story  broke  in  Washington,  Kam- 
pala’s four  chief  newspapers  car- 
ried highly  colored  accounts  of 
witchcraft  and  treason.  The  after- 
noon papers  modified  these  distor- 
tions in  the  direction  of  truth  but 
slightly.  The  more  progressive  ele- 
ments of  the  Congress,  though 
they  didn’t  believe  one  whit  in  the 
rumor,  sought  to  exploit  it.  They 
called  for  the  complete  eradication 
of  ‘'retrograde  primitivism”  and 
the  conversion  of  the  Murchison 


Falls  reserve  to  farmland.  It  began 
to  look  as  though  a pogrom  was 
getting  under  way. 

It  was  Toller’s  idea  to  dust  off 
the  old  story  (so  useful  in  the  days 
of  UFO’s)  of  Optical  Illusions.  At 
a press  conference.  Toller  pointed 
out  the  patent  absurdity  of  “anti- 
gravity” (the  government’s  lead- 
ing physicists  were  quick  to  con- 
firm him  in  this).  How  much  less 
likely  that  this  manifest  impossi- 
bility could  be  accomplished  by 
witch  doctors!  He  then  revealed 
that  THOMAS’  verdict  had  been 
Impossible,  editing  the  original 
language  for  the  sake  of  the  Eng- 
lish papers.  He  capped  his  argu- 
ment with  the  “explanation” 
THOMAS  himself  had  given  of 
the  strange  event:  it  was  an  Opti- 
cal Illusion,  caused  by  “the 
strange  climatic  conditions  of 
Uganda  in  late  spring  and  early 
summer.”  This  was  not,  of  course, 
strictly  true,  for  THOMAS,  con- 
trary to  popular  opinion  only  cal- 
culated probabilities;  he  did  not 
have  to  account  to  anyone  for  the 
occurrence  of  the  improbable. 

Prophets  are  not  honored  in 
their  own  country,  and  it  was 
with  THOMAS  as  it  had  been  for 
those  who  had  gone  before.  The 
United  States  had  grown  quite 
used  to  the  pronunciamentos  of 
computers,  but  in  the  nations  of 
West  Africa  it  was  another  story. 
Countries  like  Uganda  were  in  the 
first  flush  of  Enlightenment,  and 
THOMAS  was  to  them  the  very 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


60 

God  of  Reason.  The  fact  that  the 
building  that  housed  him  was  in 
the  form  of  the  Kaaba  and  that  a 
good  many  of  the  residents  of  these 
countries  were  of  Moslem  descent 
did  not  at  all  diminish  his  value 
as  an  oracle.  That  this  Kaaba  was 
in  turn  sheathed  in  a small  growth 
of  African  jungle  added  just  that 
touch  of  homely  mystery  to  the 
broth  of  Pure  Reason  that  made  it 
delectable  to  tastes  that  were  not, 
after  all,  that  far  or  that  long  re- 
moved from  the  jungle  themselves. 
THOMAS  was,  in  fact,  a superior 
sort  of  witch,  and  this  was  his 
chief  (though  never  admitted) 
value  to  the  C.I.A.  Thrice  THOM- 
AS had  said  that  revolutions  that 
had  seemed  imminent  would  not 
occur — and  lo,  they  had  not  oc- 
curred! 

The  power  of  a good  strong 
doubt  was  not  quite  up  to  moving 
mountains,  but  it  served  very  well 
to  keep  them  in  their  place. 

When  the  pain  abated — and  it 
had  been  terrible;  he  did  not  want 
to  remember  how  terrible  it  had 
been — Thomas  suspected  that  he 
was  under  the  influence  of  a nar- 
cotic. The  air  in  the  mud  hut  was 
heavy  with  an  unfamiliar,  smoky 
sweetness.  His  mind  felt  lazy,  and 
even  his  perception  that  he  might 
be  drugged  was  clouded  by  an  un- 
characteristic lack  of  concern.  It 
was  enough  that  the  pain  was 
gone,  that  his  body  was  whole  and 
sound. 

At  intervals  his  father  had  come 


into  the  hut  and  left  biting  his 
lip.  This  Thomas  interpreted  as  a 
sign  that  he  approved  of  the  course 
that  his  patient’s  convalescence 
was  taking — though,  Thomas 
thought  hazily,  he  might  equally 
well  be  considered  his  victim. 

One  day  when  his  recovery  was 
almost  complete  (the  only  excep- 
tion being  still  his  critical  sense, 
which  languished  sluggishly  in 
that  sweet  air),  his  father  an- 
nounced: “Today,  Mwanga  Chwa, 
you  yourself  will  fly  in  the  wooden 
bird.  Today  you  will  yourself  be- 
come as  I,  a witch  doctor,  is  it  not 
true?” 

And  it  was  true.  Thomas  let 
two  trained  cosmeticians  prepare 
him  for  the  event.  His  lazy  mind 
played  with  the  idea  of  a lamb  be- 
ing dressed  for  the  sacrifice,  but 
he  made  no  objections.  He  was 
thankful  that  mirrors  were  not  al- 
lowed on  the  reserve,  though  he 
supposed  he  had  only  to  look  at  his 
father  to  see  himself  as  others  saw 
him. 

Why  should  he  object,  after 
all?  After  what  he  had  been 
through  that  week,  he  willingly 
conceded  that  witchcraft  was  Ae 
equal  of  the  science  he  knew.  Why 
not,  therefore,  join  the  enemy,  if 
the  enemy  seems  to  be  in  the  right? 
Oh,  his  mind  could  spin  out  the- 
ories and  excuses  all  day  long.  The 
truth  was  that  he  wanted  this,  he 
enjoyed  it.  It  was  exciting  the  way 
Halloween  is  exciting  for  a child. 

When  he  left  the  hut,  still  un- 


doubting  THOMAS 


61 


steady  on  his  feet,  there  was  the 
familiar  cluster  of  older  men,  who 
applauded  him  as  though  he  were 
making  a first-night  entrance, 
which  in  a way  he  was. 

Huck,  however,  was  notably  ab- 
sent from  the  gathering,  though 
Thomas  suspected  he  would  be 
watching  from  the  wings,  waiting 
like  some  malign  understudy  for  a 
slip-up.  Well,  let  him,  Thomas 
thought,  puffing  out  his  chest  in 
conscious  pride  and  practically 
strutting  toward  his  father.  He 
was  more  changed  than  he  knew. 

The  entire  party  made  its  way 
single-file  along  a path  in  the  jun- 
gle, the  older  men  chattering  ex- 
citedly as  they  followed  behind 
Thomas  and  his  father.  The  fear 
of  the  jungle,  which  had  taken 
him  so  many  years  to  learn,  was 
cast  aside  as  easily  as  his  Euro- 
pean clothes  had  been  left  at  the 
gate.  He  began  to  feel  almost  com- 
fortable in  his  weighty  headdress, 
though  it  would  keep  snagging  in 
the  branches  to  the  amusement  of 
the  men  behind  him. 

The  path  wound  upwards,  first 
through  a stand  of  bamboo,  then 
through  clusters  of  St.  John's  wort 
and  giant  labelias.  He  must  have 
been  walking  the  better  part  of  one 
day,  but  the  time  had  gone  past 
like  water  in  a spring  brook. 

When  they  came  to  the  levita- 
tor,  it  was  bigger  than  he  had 
been  expecting.  It  was  not  going 
too  far  to  say  it  was  impressive:  a 
raft  of  rough  teak  logs  twenty  feet 


square,  this  raft  supporting  a py- 
ramid built  up  solidly  to  a height 
of  ten  feet.  It  must  have  weighed 
twice  ten  tons.  There  was  no  pro- 
vision for  carrying  cargo  on  this 
barge;  it  was  strictly  a passenger 
vehicle. 

“Mwanga  Chwa,  my  son,  today 
you  will  take  the  wooden  bird  into 
the  air.  Rise  high  as  the  mountain 
itself,  but  when  a coldness  com- 
mences and  it  is  hard  to  breathe, 
rise  no  higher.  Sail  to  the  farthest 
edges  of  the  reserve,  but  do  not  go 
beyond  those  borders  today,  for 
that  time  has  not  yet  come.” 

In  fuU  consciousness  of  his  dig- 
nity, like  a priest  mounting  the  al- 
tar for  his  first  Mass,  Mwanga 
Chwa  ascended  the  wooden  pyra- 
mid, then  turned  to  face  his  fa- 
ther. The  old  man  had  in  his 
hands  a small  wax  figure,  which 
he  placed  in  what  looked  like  a 
child's  toy  boat.  He  stared  at  his 
son  with  a deadly  intensity,  but 
today  Mwanga  Chwa  did  not 
flinch  at  that  gaze.  The  old  man 
threw  boat  and  doll  into  the  air, 
and  Mwanga  Chwa  felt  the  pyra- 
mid beneath  him  stir  like  a surf- 
board lifting  from  the  waves. 

But,  instantly,  it  settled  to  the 
ground  again.  Another  force  was 
holding  the  pyramid  in  place  like 
an  anchor.  Thomas'  gaze  turned 
directly  to  the  source  of  this  retro- 
grade impulse.  Huck  was  stand- 
ing, half-concealed,  in  a stand  of 
spiky-leaved  labelias.  For  a second 
time  their  eyes  met,  but  this  time 


62 

it  was  Thomas  who,  with  a shake 
of  his  headdress  and  a ringing 
Hah\  interrupted  their  commun- 
ion. He  could  feel  the  resisting 
will  snap  like  a dry  twig  and  in 
the  same  instant  he  felt  himself 
propelled  upwards.  The  elders 
gave  a cheer,  but  already  he  had 
risen  so  high  that  the  cheer  sound- 
ed weak,  a wisp  of  sound  only. 

There  was  aboard  this  strange 
vessel  nothing  to  steer  by  and  no 
device  that  would  hold  it  steady 
at  a given  altitude.  There  was  only 
the  mind  of  Mwanga  Chwa.  For 
a witch  doctor,  wishing  makes  it 
so:  when  he  thought  the  ascent 
should  be  slower,  it  slowed;  when, 
with  the  sense  of  glory  fully  pos- 
sessing him,  he  wished  for  speed, 
there  seemed  no  limit  to  the  speed 
he  could  command. 

In  that  corner  of  his  mind  that 
still  had  to  account  for  things,  he 
supposed  that  the  force  that  bore 
himself  and  the  great  pyramid  up 
was  the  force  of  faith,  his  faith 
and  the  faith  of  the  men  below. 
Such  things  have  been  said  to  hap- 
pen. 

He  had  flown  before,  in  air- 
planes, but  this,  oh  this  was  some- 
thing else  entirely.  The  pleasure 
of  riding  in  a plane  was  nothing 
to  this,  the  intoxication  of  his  own 
flight.  As  well  compare  the  syl- 
logisms of  a theologian  to  the  mys- 
tic s ecstasies! 

As  he  ascended  the  horizon 
dropped  and  spread  out,  and  hills 
rose  beyond  hills.  He  saw  the 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

farmlands  beyond  the  jungles,  and 
a part  of  him  was  drawn  toward 
those  crisp,  geometric  fields.  In 
his  mind  it  seemed  that  he  could 
encompass  the  entire  continent. 

Then,  despite  his  fathers  ad- 
monition, he  realized  that  he  had 
gone  too  high.  Unconsciously  his 
body  was  braced  rigidly  against 
the  cold.  He  let  the  levitator  drop 
a thousand  feet  and  began  moving 
eastward.  Soon  he  could  see  that 
he  was  directly  over  the  bound- 
aries of  the  reserve,  but  bound- 
aries meant  nothing  at  that  god- 
like height.  He  moved  serenely 
past,  and  as  he  wished  for  more 
speed  and  yet  more,  the  pyramid 
hurtled  forward  and  the  wind  tore 
the  careful  headdress  of  feathers 
from  the  head.  There  was  seem- 
ingly no  limit  to  the  energy  that 
had  been  made  available  to  him. 

The  thought  that  Uganda  might 
be  repossessed  by  the  Bugandi,  by 
his  people,  was  not  beyond  the 
realm  of  possibility.  It  seemed  that 
he  might  almost  reach  out  and 
possess  it  himself. 

Anything  was  possible  to  him 
in  this  flash  of  glory:  he  was  Alex- 
ander; he  was  Phaeton;  he  was 
Apollo;  and  his  chariot  veered 
about  and  sailed  into  the  after- 
noon sun  toward  the  city  of  Kam- 
pala. 

Unthinkingly,  beside  himself 
with  joy,  he  cried  aloud  his  tri- 
umph. Surely  all  the  wide  heaven 
was  filled  with  that  splendid,  will- 
ful shout. 


doubting  THOMAS 


63 


It  was,  inevitably,  a disaster. 
Thomas  might  have  anticipated 
the  outcome  of  his  fatal  disobedi- 
ence, but  Thomas  had  been  super- 
seded by  Mwanga  Chwa,  and 
Mwanga  Chwa  was  too  young  in 
the  ways  of  witchcraft  to  know 
anything  but  its  glory.  He  had  not 
had  time  to  learn  its  limits. 

When  the  pyramid  appeared 
over  the  city,  it  was  at  a great 
height,  a mere  speck  in  the  russet 
of  the  twilight  sky.  One  man  said  to 
another:  “Look,  there  it  is  above, 
as  we  have  been  told.  That  same 
Optical  Illusion  of  which  THOM- 
AS has  spoken.  That  is  the  work 
of  the  Bugandi.  They  think  they 
will  frighten  us  with  shadows. 
They  have  no  other  weapons  than 
that." 

And  the  other  man  agreed. 

There  was  no  faith  in  that  city; 
there  was,  indeed,  a great  lack  of 
it.  Doubt  clouded  the  sky  as  pal- 
pably as  smoke  after  a great  fire, 
and  the  wooden  bird  began  slowly 
to  settle.  It  had  flown  long  and  far 
and  was  tired. 

Thomas  could  feel  this  new 
drag  against  the  buoyant  pyramid, 
so  much  stronger  than  his  broth- 
er’s willed  resistance,  which  was 
after  all  not  doubt  but  mere  dis- 
sent. He  resisted  it,  seeking  calmer 
areas  of  unbroken  faith  and  trying 
to  ride  them  away  from  the  city, 
but  it  was  like  taking  a sailboat 
through  a sea  of  whirlpools.  At 
last  he  reached  a sort  of  lagoon 
and  drifted  there.  Oh,  to  relax! 


The  entire  student  body  of  the 
fourth  form  at  the  Sacred  Heart 
Orphanage  were  gathered  about 
the  far  colonnade  of  the  playing 
ground.  They  were  observing  a 
black  splotch  directly  overhead  in 
the  dusky,  lavender  sky. 

“It  is  soT  one  of  the  fourth- 
formers  insisted. 

“Oh,  it  ain’t  either!  How  could 
it  be?"  a second  insisted. 

“It  is  so!"  the  first  persisted  un- 
reasoningly.  “I  know  it  is."  By  the 
expressions  in  their  eyes,  it  was 
evident  that  the  great  majority  of 
his  class  mates  were  of  the  same 
opinion,  reasonable  or  no. 

A black-complected  man  in 
black  robes  came  striding  briskly 
over  the  playing  field,  a cricket 
bat  in  his  hand.  As  he  approached, 
the  minority  spokesman  called  to 
him : “Brother  Antoninus,  tell 
them  that  isn’t  any  old  antigravity 
machine  up  there." 

“What  nonsense  is  this?"  Broth- 
er Antoninus  asked  impatiently, 
without  deigning  to  look  where 
the  boy  was  pointing.  (He  had,  in 
any  case,  already  seen  it.)  “Of 
course  it’s  not!  What  sort  of  heath- 
enish superstition  are  you  boys  de- 
luding yourselves  with?  The  next 
thing  I’ll  find  you  in  the  jungle, 
beating  on  drums.  Speak  up, 
James,  answer  my  question!" 

The  first  boy  lowered  his  head. 
“I  only  thought — ’’ 

‘Tou  didn't  think — that’s  exact- 
ly it.  If  you’d  thought,  you  would 
have  realized  that  it  is  an  Optical 


64 

Illusion,  the  commonest  thing  in 
the  n odd.  Now  come  back  to  the 
classroom.  You’re  already  ten  min- 
utes late  for  arithmetic.”  And  he 
gave  the  boy  a good-natured  swat 
with  the  cricket  bat. 

In  an  instant,  the  Optical  Illu- 
sion was  forgotten.  It  hadn’t  been 
that  interesting  to  look  at  anyhow, 
and  arithmetic  was  obviously  more 
important. 

Tlie  lagoon  had  suddenly  be- 
come the  very  heart  of  the  mael- 
strom. As  the  prosaic  forces  of 
gravity  caught  the  pyramid  in 
their  grip,  Mwanga  Chwa  grew 
uncertain  and  Thomas  asserted 
himself.  ‘This  is  impossible,” 
Thomas  thought.  ‘This  cannot  be.” 

The  pyramid  dropped  faster. 

“I  am  dreaming.  It’s  as  simple 
as  tliat.  Flight  is  a common  enough 
dream,  and  because  I am  falling 
in  the  dream  and  will  come  to 
earth  at  any  moment  now,  I can 
expect  to  awake  quick  as  a wink.” 

The  pyramid  fell  at  thirty-two 
feet  per  second.  Several  bodies 
were  crushed  beneath  it,  and 
Thomas  Mwanga  Chwa  was  never 
surely  identified. 

At  the  same  moment  but  several 
miles  away,  in  a reserve  for  wild- 
life, one  of  the  natives  residing 
there,  a young  man  of  about 
Thomas’  age,  dropped  a toy  boat 
containing  a crude  wax  figure  into 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

an  anthill,  doing  considerable 
damage.  The  native  smiled  and 
said  Hah! 

But  that  was  not  Thomas’  onlv, 
or  even  his  definitive,  epitaph.  In 
Washington,  at  the  foot  of  Penn- 
sylvania Avenue,  on  a small  pyra- 
mid atop  the  Kaaba  there,  a statue 
stands,  executed  on  the  basis  of  a 
photograph  that  appeared  in  Life 
magazine,  so  that  Thomas  ap- 
pears, perhaps  uncharacteristical- 
ly, in  a business  suit.  The  epigraph 
was  written  by  Irving  Whitehall, 
and  it  reads: 

THOMAS  MWANGA  CHWA 
2009—2028 

As  Icarus  rose  too  high,  so 
Thomas  went  too  far. 

He  sailed  over  the  world’s 
edge, 

And  his  boat  was  shattered  on 
the  reefs  of  doubt. 

Those  who  follow  him  will 
honor  his  glorious  memory. 

But  THOMAS,  the  other 
THOMAS,  obdurately  held  to  his 
first  opinion  (it  is  almost  as 
though  he  were  jealous),  and  it 
does  no  good  to  try  and  convince 
him  that  the  whole  thing  had  been 
anything  but  Not  Bloody  Likely, 

This  is  the  epitaph,  probably, 
that  Thomas  would  have  chosen 
for  himself.  ◄ 


THE  SCIENCE  SPRINGBOARD 


THE  MARTIAN  ATMOSPHERE 
by  Ted  Thomas 


The  scientists  have  been 
studying  the  results  of  the  observa- 
tions made  by  Mariner  IV  on  the 
Martian  atmosphere.  Gathering 
the  data  was  a fine  technical  ac- 
complishment, but  there  isn't 
enough  of  it.  It  is  possible  to  ar- 
rive at  different  conclusions  con- 
cerning the  Martian  atmosphere, 
yet  each  conclusion  will  be  rea- 
sonably consistent  with  the  data 
picked  up  during  the  fly-by. 

A Martian  atmospheric  model 
can  be  pieced  together  from  Mari- 
ner IV  spectroscopic  observations. 
These  showed  peak  ionization  at  a 
height  of  120  kilometers,  among 
other  things.  Carbon  dioxide  ab- 
sorbtion  lines  had  already  been 
found.  When  these  facts  are  pulled 
together,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose 
that  the  Martian  atmosphere  con- 
sists mainly  of  carbon  dioxide. 

Temperature  considerations  are 
important.  If  the  peak  ionization 
can  be  taken  to  correspond  to  the 
F2  peak  in  Earth's  atmosphere, 
then  the  Martian  atmosphere  must 
be  very  cold.  The  temperature  of 


the  Martian  surface  must  be  about 
minus  63  degrees  C,  and  it  grows 
colder  as  you  go  higher.  The  tem- 
perature istribution  in  the  Mar- 
tian atmosphere  is  easier  to  guess  at 
once  you  know  the  temperatures  at 
which  carbon  dioxide  freezes  and 
falls  out  as  snow.  Conditions  seem 
to  be  just  on  the  ragged  edge  for 
carbon  dioxide  snow  on  Mars. 

There  is  room  for  all  kinds  of 
guesses  about  what  has  gone  on  in 
the  Martian  atmosphere.  Perhaps 
the  oxygen  is  now  tied  up  as  metal- 
lic oxides,  and  the  water  has 
formed  hydrates.  Or  perhaps  in 
the  dim  past  a dying  plant  life 
stopped  removing  carbon  dioxide 
and  replenishing  the  oxygen  need- 
ed by  the  animal  life.  Faced  with 
both  starvation  and  suffocation, 
what  agonies  the  animal  population 
must  have  gone  through.  Slowly 
and  painfully  the  stifling  blanket  of 
carbon  dioxide  accumulated.  Over 
a long  period  of  time  perhaps  the 
shaping  hand  of  evolution  allowed 
some  of  the  animal  species  to 
linger.  Perhaps  a few  linger  still. 


This  very  funny  story  was  enthusiastically  recommended  to  us  by 
Laurence  M.  Janifer  and,  once  read,  just  as  enthusiastically  ac- 
quired for  publication  in  F&SF,  It  first  appeared  in  Chess  Review 
{but  you  need  not  be  a chess-player  to  enjoy  it).  Its  author  writes 
that  he  is  '*30  years  old,  a graduate  student  in  English  at  the  Uni- 
versity of  Wisconsin,  married,  fat,  and  happy.  I have  published 
poetry,  translations  of  modern  Polish  poetry,  and  book  reviews  in 
a variety  of  little  magazines  . . .""—And  adds,  "By  the  way,  Ym  a 
lousy  chess-player.""  But  a first-rate  writer. 


VON  GOOM'S  GAMBIT 


by  Victor  Contoski 


You  won’t  find  von  goom’s 
Gambit  in  any  of  the  books  on 
chess  openings.  Ludvik  Pach- 
man’s  Modernc  Schachtheorie 
simply  ignores  it.  Paul  Keres’  au- 
thoritative work  Teoria  Debiutcnv 
Szachowych  mentions  it  only  in 
passing  in  a footnote  on  page  239, 
advising  the  reader  never  to  try  it 
under  any  circumstances  and 
makes  sure  the  advice  is  followed 
by  giving  no  further  information. 
Dr.  Max  Euwe’s  Archives  lists  the 
gambit  in  the  index  under  the  ini- 
tials V.  G.  (Gambit),  but  fortu- 
nately gives  no  page  number.  The 
twenty-volume  Chess  Encyclo- 
pedia (fourth  edition)  slates  that 


Von  Goom  is  a myth  and  classifies 
him  with  werewolves  and  vam- 
pires. His  Gambit  is  not  men- 
tioned. Vassily  Nikolayevitch 
Kryllov  heartily  recommends  Von 
Goom’s  Gambit  in  the  English  ed- 
ition of  his  book,  Russian  Theory 
of  the  Opening;  the  Russian  edi- 
tion makes  no  mention  of  it.  For- 
tunately Kryllov  himself  did 
not — and  does  not  yet — know, 
the  moves,  so  he  did  not  recom- 
mend them  to  his  American  read- 
ers. If  he  had,  the  cold  war  would 
be  finished.  In  fact,  America  would 
be  finished,  and  possibly  the 
world. 

Von  Goom  was  an  inconspicu- 


66 


VON  GOOM  S GAMBIT 


67 


ous  man,  as  most  discoverers  usu- 
ally are;  and  he  probably  made 
his  discovery  by  accident,  as  most 
discoverers  usually  do.  He  was  the 
illegitimate  son  of  a well  known 
actress  and  a prominent  political 
figure.  The  scandal  of  his  birth 
haunted  his  early  years,  and  as 
soon  as  he  could  legally  do  so  he 
changed  his  name  to  Von  Goom. 
He  refused  to  take  a Christian 
name  because  he  claimed  he  was 
no  Christian,  a fact  which  seemed 
trivial  at  the  time  but  was  to  ex- 
plain much  about  this  strange 
man.  He  grew  fast  early  in  life 
and  attained  a height  of  five  feet, 
four  inches,  by  the  time  he  was 
ten  years  old.  He  seemed  to  think 
this  height  was  sufficient,  for  he 
stopped  growing.  When  his 
corpse  was  measured  after  his  sud- 
den demise,  it  proved  to  be  exactly 
five  feet,  four  inches.  Soon  after 
he  stopped  growing,  he  also 
stopped  talking.  He  never  stopped 
working  because  he  never  started. 
The  fortunes  of  his  parents  proved 
sufficient  for  all  his  needs.  At  the 
first  opportunity,  he  quit  school 
and  spent  the  next  twenty  years  of 
his  hfe  reading  science  fiction  and 
growing  a mustache  on  one  side  of 
his  face.  Apparently,  sometime 
during  this  period,  he  learned  to 
play  chess. 

On  April  5,  1997,  he  entered 
his  first  chess  tournament,  the 
Minnesota  State  Championship. 
At  first,  the  players  thought  he  was 
a deaf  mute  because  he  refused  to 


speak.  Then  the  tournament  direc- 
tor, announcing  the  pairings  for 
the  round,  made  a mistake  and  an- 
nounced, *‘Curt  Brasket — White; 
Van  Goon — Black.”  A small,  cut- 
ting voice  filled  with  infinite  sar- 
casm said,  Won  Goom.”  It  was  the 
first  time  Von  Goom  had  spoken 
in  t^venty  years.  He  was  to  speak 
once  more  before  his  death. 

Von  Goom  did  not  win  the 
Minnesota  State  Championship. 
He  lost  to  Brasket  in  twenty-nine 
moves.  Then  he  lost  to  George 
Barnes  in  twenty-three  moves,  to 
K.  N.  Pedersen  in  nineteen,  Fred- 
rick G.  Galvin  in  seven,  James 
Seifert  in  thirty-nine.  Dr.  Milton 
Otteson  in  three  and  Baby  George 
Jackson  (who  was  five  years  old 
at  the  time)  in  one  hundred  and 
two.  Thereupon,  he  retired  from 
tournament  chess  for  two  years. 

His  next  appearance  was  De- 
cember 12,  1999,  in  the  Greater 
Birmingham  Open,  where  he  also 
lost  all  his  games.  During  the  re- 
mainder of  the  year,  he  played  in 
the  Fresno  Chess  Festival,  the 
Eastern  States  Chess  Congress,  the 
Peach  State  Invitational  and  the 
Alaska  Championship.  His  score 
for  the  year  was : opponents  forty- 
one;  Von  Goom  zero. 

Von  Goom,  however,  was  de- 
termined. For  a period  of  two  and 
one-half  years  thereafter  he  en- 
tered every  tournament  he  could. 
Money  was  no  obstacle  and  dis- 
tance was  no  barrier.  He  bought 
his  own  private  plane  and  learned 


68 

to  fly  so  that  he  could  travel  across 
the  continent  playing  chess  at 
every  possible  occasion.  At  the  end 
of  the  two  and  one-half  year  pe- 
riod, he  was  still  looking  for  his 
first  win. 

Then  he  discovered  his  Gambit. 
The  discovery  must  surely  have 
been  by  accident,  but  the  credit 
— or  rather  the  infamy — of  work- 
ing out  the  variations  must  be  at- 
tributed to  Von  Goom,  His  unholy 
studies  convinced  him  that  the 
Gambit  could  be  played  with  ei- 
ther the  White  or  the  Black  pieces. 
There  was  no  defense  against  it. 
He  must  have  spent  many  a ter- 
rible night  over  the  chessboard 
analyzing  things  man  was  not 
meant  to  analyze.  The  discovery 
of  the  Gambit  and  its  implica- 
tions turned  his  hair  snow  white, 
although  his  half  mustache  re- 
mained a dirty  brown  to  his  dying 
day,  which  was  not  far  off. 

His  first  opportunity  to  play  the 
Gambit  came  in  the  Greater  New 
York  Open.  The  pre-tournament 
favorite  was  the  wily  defending 
Champion,  grandmaster  Miroslav 
Terminsky,  although  sentiment 
favored  John  George  Bateman,  the 
Intercollegiate  Champion,  who 
was  also  all-American  quarterback 
for  Notre  Dame,  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
and  the  youngest  member  of  the 
Atomic  Energy  Commission.  By 
this  time.  Von  Goom  had  become 
a familiar,  almost  comic,  figure  in 
the  chess  world.  People  came  to 
accept  his  silence,  his  withdrawal, 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

even  his  half  mustache.  As  Von 
Goom  signed  his  entry  card,  a few 
players  remarked  that  his  hair  had 
turned  white;  but  most  people  ig- 
nored him.  Fifteen  minutes  after 
the  first  round  began.  Von  Goom 
won  his  first  game  of  chess.  His 
opponent  had  died  of  a heart  at- 
tack. 

He  won  his  second  game  too 
when  his  opponent  became  vio- 
lently sick  to  his  stomach  after  the 
first  six  moves.  His  third  opponent 
got  up  from  the  table  and  left  the 
tournament  hall  in  disgust,  never 
to  play  again.  His  fourth  broke 
down  in  tears,  begging  Von  Goom 
to  desist  from  playing  the  Gambit. 
The  tournament  director  had  to 
lead  the  poor  man  from  the  hall. 
The  next  opponent  simply  sat  and 
stared  at  Von  Goom's  opening 
position  until  he  lost  the  game  by 
forfeit. 

His  string  of  victories  had 
placed  Von  Goom  among  the  lead- 
ers of  the  tournament,  and  his  next 
opponent  was  the  Intercollegiate 
Champion  John  George  Bateman, 
a hot-tempered,  attacking  player. 
Von  Goom  played  his  Gambit,  or, 
if  you  prefer  to  be  technical,  his 
Counter  Gambit,  since  he  played 
the  Black  pieces.  John  George  s at- 
tempted refutation  was  as  uncon- 
ventional as  it  was  ineffective.  He 
jumped  to  his  feet,  reached  across 
the  table,  grabbed  Von  Goom  by 
the  collar  of  his  shirt  and  hit  him 
in  the  mouth.  But  it  did  no  good. 
Even  as  Von  Goom  fell,  he  made 


vox  GOOM  S GAMBIT 


69 


his  next  move.  John  George  Bate- 
man, who  had  never  been  sick  a 
day  in  his  life,  collapsed  in  an 
epileptic  fit. 

Thus,  Von  Goom,  who  had  nev- 
er won  a game  of  chess  in  his  life 
before,  was  to  play  the  wily  grand- 
master, Miroslav  Terminsky,  for 
the  championship.  Unfortunately, 
the  game  was  shown  to  a crowd 
of  spectators  on  a huge  demonstra- 
tion board  mounted  at  one  end  of 
the  hall.  The  tension  mounted  as 
the  two  contestants  sat  down  to 
play.  The  crowd  gasped  in  shock 
and  horror  when  they  saw  the 
opening  mo^’es  of  Von  Goom's 
Gambit.  Then  silence  descended, 
a long,  unbroken  silence.  A re- 
porter who  dropped  by  at  the  end 
of  the  day  to  interview  the  winner 
found  to  his  amazement  that  the 
crowd  and  players  alike  had 
turned  to  stone,  prrty  Terminsky 
had  escaped  the  holocaust.  The 
lucky  man  had  gone  insane. 

A few  more  like  results  in  tour- 
naments and  Von  Goom  became, 
by  default,  the  chess  champion  of 
America.  As  such  he  received  an 
invitation  to  play  in  the  Challen- 
gers Tournament,  the  winner  of 
which  would  play  a match  for  the 
world  championship  with  the  cur- 
rent champion.  Dr.  Vladislaw 
Feorintoshkin,  author,  humanitar- 
ian and  winner  of  the  Nobel  Peace 
Prize.  Some  officials  of  the  Inter- 
national Chess  Federation  talked 
of  banning  the  Gambit  from  play, 
but  Von  Goom  took  midnight  jour- 


neys to  their  houses  and  showed 
them  the  Gambit.  They  disap- 
peared from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Thus  it  appeared  that  the  way  to 
the  world  championship  stood 
open  for  him. 

Unknown  to  Von  Goom,  how- 
ever, the  night  before  he  arrived 
in  Portoroz,  Yugoslavia,  the  site  of 
the  tournament,  the  International 
Chess  Federation  held  a secret 
meeting.  The  finest  brains  in  the 
world  gathered  together  seeking  a 
refutation  to  Von  Goom's  Gambit 
— and  they  found  it.  The  follow- 
ing night,  the  most  intelligent 
men  of  their  generation,  the  lead- 
ing grandmasters  of  the  world, 
took  Von  Goom  out  in  the  woods 
and  shot  him.  The  great  humani- 
tarian Dr.  Feorintoshkin  looked 
down  at  the  body  and  said,  “A 
merciful  end  for  Van  Goon.’*  A 
small,  cutting  voice  filled  with  in- 
finite sarcasm  said,  “Von  Goom.** 
Then  the  leading  grandmasters 
shot  him  again  and  cleverly  con- 
cealed his  body  in  a shallow  grave, 
which  has  not  been  found  to  this 
day.  After  all,  they  have  the  finest 
brains  in  the  world. 

And  what  of  Von  Goom*s  Gam- 
bit? Chess  is  a game  of  logic. 
Thirty-two  pieces  move  on  a board 
of  sixty-four  squares,  colored  alter- 
nately dark  and  light.  As  they 
move  they  form  patterns.  Some  of 
these  patterns  are  pleasing  to  the 
logical  mind  of  man,  and  some  are 
not.  They  show  what  man  is  ca- 
pable of  and  what  is  beyond  his 


70 

reach.  Take  any  position  of  the 
pieces  on  the  chessboard.  Usually 
it  tells  of  the  logical  or  semi-logi- 
cal plans  of  the  players,  their 
strategy  in  playing  for  a win  or  a 
draw,  and  their  personalities.  If 
you  see  a pattern  from  the  King  s 
Gambit  Accepted,  you  know  that 
both  players  are  tacticians,  that 
the  fight  will  be  brief  but  fierce.  A 
pattern  from  the  Queen’s  Gambit 
Declined,  however,  tells  that  the 
players  are  strategists  playing  for 
minute  advantages,  the  weaken- 
ing of  one  square  or  the  placing  of 
a Rook  on  a half-opened  file.  From 
such  patterns,  pleasing  or  dis- 
pleasing, you  can  tell  much  not 
only  about  the  game  and  the  play- 
ers but  also  about  man  in  general, 
and  perhaps  even  about  the  order 
of  the  universe. 

Now  suppose  someone  discov- 
ers by  accident  or  design  a pattern 
on  the  chessboard  that  is  more 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

than  displeasing,  an  alien  pattern 
that  tells  unspeakable  things  about 
the  mind  of  the  player,  man  in 
general  and  the  order  of  the  uni- 
verse. Suppose  no  normal  man  can 
look  at  such  a pattern  and  remain 
normal.  Surely  such  a pattern 
must  have  been  formed  by  Von 
Goom’s  Gambit. 

I wish  the  story  could  end  here, 
but  I fear  it  will  not  end  for  a long 
time.  History  has  shown  that  dis- 
coveries cannot  be  unmade.  Two 
months  ago  in  Camden,  New  Jer- 
sey, a forty-tliree  year  old  man  was 
found  turned  to  stone  staring  at  a 
position  on  a chessboard.  In  Salt 
Lake  City,  the  Utah  State  cham- 
pion suddenly  went  screaming 
mad.  And,  last  week  in  Minneapo- 
lis, a woman  studying  chess  sud- 
denly gave  birth  to  twins — 
although  she  was  not  pregnant  at 
the  time. 

Myself,  I’m  giving  up  the  game. 


CHANGING  YOUR  ADDRESS? 

The  Magazine  of  FANTASY  and  SCIENCE  FICTION  will  follow  you 
an}^here  providing  you  let  us  know  six  weeks  in  advance.  Please  be 
sure  to  give  us  your  old  address  as  well  as  the  new  one,  and  be  sure  to  add 
the  ZIP  number.  (If  convenient,  send  the  address  label  from  the  wrapper 
of  the  next  copy  of  F&SF  vou  receive.) 

MERCURY  PUBLICATIONS 
Subscription  Service 
347  East  53  Street 
New  York,  N.  Y.  10022 


Snow  gives  us  snowmen  and  blizzards,  skiing  and  avalanches; 
that  is,  white  snow.  When  the  snow  began  falling  green  on  an 
afternoon  in  late  February,  it  was  a source  of  great  fun  for 
the  Matlock  children;  they  pretended  it  was  pistachio  ice 
cream.  For  their  parents,  and  for  the  scientific  community,  it 
was  first  an  enigma  and  then,  a source  of  great  fear  . . . 


THE  GREEN  SNOW 


by  Miriam  Allen  deFord 


IT  WAS  A MORNING  IN  LATE 

February,  and  the  sky  threatened 
snow.  The  Matlock  children — 
Bruce,  aged  eleven,  and  Nonna, 
aged  nine — and  their  frisky  setter 
Laird  hoped  it  was  true.  Their 
father,  who  had  to  commute  to  the 
city  and  back,  and  their  mother, 
who  had  shopping  to  do,  were  not 
so  pleased.  Nobody  consulted  the 
two  Siamese,  Marse  and  Miss,  but 
undoubtedly  they  would  have 
agreed  with  the  older  Matlocks; 
they  insisted  on  going  wherever 
the  kids  and  the  dog  went,  but  they 
hated  to  get  their  paws  wet  and 
cold. 

It  held  off  all  morning  and  most 
of  the  afternoon;  when  the  chil- 
dren got  home  from  school  it  was 


still  threatening  and  no  more.  Mrs. 
Matlock  had  done  her  shopping 
and  come  home  again,  but  she  was 
due  at  a meeting  of  the  library 
committee  at  four,  and  she  disliked 
driving  when  the  roads  were  slip- 
pery. She  had  no  choice,  though, 
for  her  husband  wouldn't  be  back 
with  the  big  car  till  after  six.  She 
put  a casserole  dinner  in  a slow 
oven,  gave  strict  orders  to  Norma 
and  Bruce  that  there  was  to  be  no 
TV  and  no  playing  outside  till 
their  homework  was  done,  and 
started  out. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  snow  be- 
gan to  fall — slow  and  light  at  first, 
then  thick  and  heavy. 

And  it  wasn't  white.  It  was 
green. 


71 


72 

The  trees  took  on  a faint  sem- 
blance of  spring,  their  twigs  and 
branches  lightly  tinted  as  they 
would  be  in  April.  Soon  all  the 
deceptive  likeness  vanished  under 
an  avalanche  of  strange  shining 
greenness.  The  children,  who  had 
stared  in  amazement  through  the 
windows,  could  no  longer  resist. 
Abandoning  books  and  papers, 
they  rushed  out  into  the  garden. 

It  felt  hke  snow.  Crystals 
formed  and  melted  on  their  out- 
stretched hands.  When  they  gath- 
ered it,  it  made  a firm  cold  ball. 

But  it  was  green. 

Well,  then,  it  was  green.  Hilari- 
ously they  wallowed  in  the  rapidly 
forming  drifts,  pelted  each  other, 
screamed  with  excitement  and 
tossed  handfuls  into  each  other's 
open  mouths.  It  tasted  like  snow  as 
they  swallowed  it,  but  they  pre- 
tended it  was  pistachio  ice  cream 
and  delicious.  Laird  joined  in  the 
fun;  Marse  and  Miss  kept  advanc- 
ing and  retreating  when  the  chil- 
dren threw  handfuls  of  snow  at 
them. 

Everywhere  they  could  see  now 
the  world  was  deep  green,  like  mid- 
summer. Only  it  was  cold. 

The  committee  meeting  broke 
up  when  the  green  flakes  began 
drifting  down.  For  a few  minutes 
everybody  pretended  not  to  notice, 
each  one  thinking  with  alarm  that 
something  had  gone  wrong  with 
either  eyes  or  mind.  When  every- 
one's uneasiness  became  apparent 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

to  all  the  others,  each  member  had 
only  one  desire — to  get  home, 
where  it  was  safe,  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. The  three  women  and  two 
men,  puzzled  and  rather  fright- 
ened, hastily  adjourned  the  session. 

“I've  heard  of  red  snow — it's 
some  kind  of  microscopic  organ- 
ism— but  never  of  green,"  said  Mr. 
Whitby.  None  of  the  others  had 
heard  even  of  red  snow.  The  other 
man,  Mr.  Van  Horn,  looked  re- 
lieved; he  happened  to  be  color- 
blind, and  would  never  have 
known  otherwise  what  made  the 
falling  snow  so  strangely  dark.  The 
three  women  all  had  children  at 
home,  and  they  felt  it  urgent  to 
keep  them  from  getting  too  near  to 
this  queer  phenomenon.  Mrs.  Mat- 
lock,  who  lived  farthest  away, 
drove  dangerously  fast  and  reached 
her  house  to  find  the  garden  well 
trampled  but  children  and  animals 
all  inside — they  had  seen  the  car 
coming  and  had  run  in  fast.  Bruce 
and  Norma  were  both  demurely 
busy  with  their  homework,  but 
their  experienced  mother  was  not 
fooled;  damp  clothes,  short  breath, 
and  tousled  hair  told  her  the  story. 

“I  see  you  haven't  noticed  the 
funny  snow,"  she  said  dryly,  and 
went  into  the  kitchen  to  look  after 
her  dinner. 

By  the  time  Mr.  Matlock  got 
there,  late  and  worried,  the  storm 
had  become  a blizzard. 

“I  just  about  made  it,”  he  said, 
gasping.  “Thank  goodness  you're 
all  home  and  now  both  cars  are  in 


THE  GREEN  SNOW 


73 


the  garage.  Haven’t  you  had  the 
radio  or  TV  on?” 

'Tou  mean  it’s  in  the  city  too?” 
his  wife  asked,  rather  stupidly. 
Somehow  it  hadn’t  occurred  to  her. 

course — it’s  happening  for 
miles  around,”  he  answered  impa- 
tiently. The  green  snow  had  wor- 
ried him  more  than  he  cared  to 
admit.  He  tuned  in  the  nearest 
station.  Outside,  the  drifts  had 
reached  the  windowsills. 

The  announcer  was  bringing  in 
reports  from  meteorologists,  chem- 
ists, any  scientists  the  station 
could  reach  who  might  conceiva- 
bly have  some  explanation.  None 
of  them  had.  Green  snow  was  ab- 
solutely unique.  An  ominously 
soothing  tone  in  the  newscaster’s 
voice  was  the  most  alarming  thing 
about  the  broadcast,  and  it  didn’t 
help  when  he  began  introducing 
clergymen  from  local  churches 
who  assured  them  that  this  was 
merely  a natural  phenomenon  and 
nothing  to  bother  about  at  all.  The 
older  Matlocks  merely  toyed  with 
their  dinner;  the  children  ate  as 
heartily  as  ever,  but  without  chat- 
ter— everybody  was  listening  to 
the  radio,  which  they  had  switched 
on  instead  of  TV  while  they  were 
in  the  dining  room.  Even  the  dog 
and  the  two  cats  seemed  to  under- 
stand; they  all  sat  motionless  star- 
ing at  the  set,  as  if  they  got  the 
message  too. 

The  green  snow  kept  on  falling. 
The  wind  blew  it  in  clouds  that 
dashed  against  the  windows.  With- 


out bothering  to  clear  away  the 
dishes,  the  Matlocks  turned  out  the 
lights,  the  better  to  observe  what 
was  happening  outside.  Laughing 
nervously  at  himself,  Matlock 
toured  the  house  to  see  that  all 
doors  and  windows  were  locked 
tight. 

They  switched  back  to  TV  just 
in  time  to  see  Dr.  HaHgren,  the 
professor  of  dermatology  at  the 
nearby  university.  They  caught 
him  in  the  middle  of  a sentence. 

“ — so  I repeat,  there  is  no  rea- 
son for  anxiety.  But  until  this  pe- 
culiar snow  has  been  analyzed  in 
the  laboratory,  it  might  be  better  to 
stay  away  from  it.  Anyone  who  ha$ 
already  touched  it  had  better 
bathe  thoroughly  in  hot  water  with 
chemical  soap  or  some  other  steri- 
lizing agent,  it  can  do  no  harm 
and  may  wash  ofE  any  residue  that 
might  irritate  the  skin.  As  soon  as 
the  substance  has  been  analyzed 
we  shall  report  our  findings.” 

They  had  all  been  out  in  it. 
The  Matlocks  had  two  bathrooms; 
the  children  first,  of  course,  no 
matter  how  obstreperously  they 
protested.  When  they  were  thor- 
oughly scrubbed,  they  rushed  back 
in  pajamas  and  bathrobes  to  listen 
again,  with  the  sound  turned  up 
loud  so  their  parents  could  hear. 
Then  Laird  got  his  bath,  and  final- 
ly the  annoyed  and  wriggling  cats. 
TTiey  all  gathered  again  in  the  liv- 
ing room. 

There  was  another  doctor  on 
now — a specialist  in  internal 


74 

medicine.  ‘'There  is  no  cause  for 
apprehension/'  he  said  firmly. 
"The  probability  is  that  the  only 
danger  from  this  strange  snowfall 
is  the  same  as  from  an  ordinary 
one — colds  and  chilblains  from 
too  long  and  close  contact  with  it. 
But  until  the  analysis  gives  us  a 
clean  bill  of  health,  I should  like 
as  an  internist  to  supplement  Dr. 
Hallgren's  prescription  of  hot 
baths.  If  anybody — and  this  prob- 
ably means  just  children — has  ac- 
cidentally swallowed  any  of  this 
snow,  and  if  any  symptoms  what- 
ever should  develop,  call  your  fam- 
ily doctor  at  once  and  get  his  ad- 
vice." 

Bruce  and  Norma  exchanged 
guilty  glances.  "Did  you?"  their 
mother  asked  fiercely.  "Well,  I 
guess  a little,"  Bruce  said,  "We 
played  it  was  pistachio  ice  cream," 
Norma  confessed.  But  they  both 
said  they  felt  fine,  and  they  dis- 
played no  signs  of  illness. 

"Laird  dived  right  into  a drift," 
Bruce  remarked.  Laird  sneezed, 

"Should  we  call  the  vet,  do  you 
think?"  Mrs.  Matlock  suggested. 

"Nonsense,"  her  husband  said. 
"Wait  a while,  anyway,  and  see  if 
anything  happens.  Look — I think 
the  snow  is  stopping." 

It  was.  The  fall  was  thinning, 
and  slowly  the  wind  died  down 
and  the  air  cleared.  Whatever 
damage  had  been  done  was  prob- 
ably over.  Apparently  the  TV  sta- 
tion thought  so  too,  for  after  an- 
nouncing it  would  break  in  with 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

spot  news,  it  resumed  the  regular 
schedule.  The  children,  their 
homework  finished,  busied  them- 
selves with  a new  jigsaw  puzzle, 
rather  elated  by  the  strangeness  of 
spending  the  evening  in  the  living 
room  in  their  nightclothes. 

Only  the  animals  continued  to 
act  strangely.  The  two  Siamese 
kept  prowling  and  whining  in 
their  raucous  voices.  Laird,  whose 
usual  early  evening  post  was  on 
the  floor  between  Bruce's  feet,  re- 
fused to  sit  still  anywhere;  he 
roamed  from  one  to  another  of 
them,  gazed  searchingly  into  their 
faces,  moved  on  again.  He  didn't 
sneeze  any  more,  but  he  kept  trem- 
bling as  if  he  were  frightened. 

Mrs.  Matlock,  back  from  the 
kitchen,  turned  on  the  radio,  low, 
and  sat  down  close  to  it.  She  did- 
n't want  to  infect  the  others  with 
her  nervousness,  but  she  had  to 
hear,  if  news  interrupted  the  music 
and  commercials.  She  glanced  at 
the  clock;  it  was  half  past  eight. 
She  looked  significantly  at  her  hus- 
band. 

"Bedtime,  kids,"  he  said  crisply. 

They  were  good  children;  diey 
gathered  theit  things  together. 
"Will  you  wake  us  if  there's  any- 
thing new?"  Bruce  asked.  "I'll  do 
that,"  his  father  promised  him. 
Norma,  always  the  more  sensitive 
of  the  two,  clung  to  her  mother's 
hand  as  she  was  tucked  in  bed  and 
asked  in  a whisper  if  she  could 
have  the  night  light  on.  "Scary 
baby,"  Bruce  jeered;  but  he  made 


THE  GREEN  SNOW 


75 


no  objection  when  Mrs.  Matlock 
left  the  door  ajar  between  their 
rooms. 

It  was  too  cold  to  put  the  ani- 
mals in  the  back  room,  originally 
a pantry,  where  they  usually  slept. 
Tacitly  they  let  them  stay  where 
they  were.  The  setter  finally  curled 
up  near  Mrs.  Matlock  as  she  sat 
beside  the  radio;  Marse  and  Miss, 
tired  out,  huddled  together  in  a 
corner  of  the  couch. 

Matlock  got  up,  went  to  the  pic- 
ture window,  and  peered  out  into 
the  night.  Not  only  had  the  snow 
stopped,  but  the  clouds  were  gone 
and  the  moon  was  up.  Under  its 
light  the  expanse  of  snow  looked 
almost  normal — only  a little  dark- 
er and  more  shadowy  than  snow 
should  be. 

‘"Well,"  he  said  in  an  overly 
cheerful  tone  that  revealed  his  hid- 
den tension,  “I  guess  whatever  it 
is  has  finished.  Was  there  anything 
new  on  the  radio?  I haven't  been 
paying  attention." 

“Nothing  so  far  we  hadn't  heard 
before,  or  I'd  have  told  you."  They 
caught  each  other's  eye  and  laughed 
in  relief.  “But — oh,  here  it  is — 
they're  going  to  announce  the  re- 
sults of  the  laboratory  analysis." 

"We  are  interrupting  this  con- 
cert to  give  the  first  report  on  anal- 
ysis of  the  green  snow  that  fell  on 
all  the  southeastern  part  of  the 
State  this  afternoon  and  evening," 
said  the  announcer.  “This  is  a pub- 
lic service  statement  The  authori- 
ties have  the  situation  weU  in  hand 


and  full  instructions  will  be  issued 
regularly  on  all  radio  and  televi- 
sion stations.  Please  listen  atten- 
tively and  follow  aU  orders  im- 
plicitly. The  next  voice  you  hear 
will  be  that  of  the  State  Director  of 
Public  Health,  Mr.  John  McNa- 
mee." 

“My  Lord!  That  doesn't  sound 
so  good!"  Matlock  exclaimed. 
Quickly  he  turned  on  the  TV  set 
instead,  to  see  the  Director  as  well 
as  hear  him.  Their  arms  around 
each  other,  the  Matlocks  stared  at 
the  screen,  their  ears  alert. 

McNamee's  paunch  and  jowls 
and  fringe  of  hair  filled  the  screen. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he 
said,  “I  have  here  in  my  hand  the 
very  important  report  of  the  chem- 
ical andysis  made  by  the  univer- 
sity laboratory,  which  has  just 
been  given  me.  The  report,  I mean, 
not  the  laboratory!"  He  smiled 
apologetically. 

"The  green  snow — " 

At  which  moment  the  electric- 
ity failed.  The  screen  faded,  both 
TV  and  radio  fell  silent,  and  the 
Matlocks  sat  in  darkness. 

The  cats  wailed.  The  dog 
howled.  Both  children,  wakened 
suddenly,  ran  barefoot  into  the 
room,  blundered  against  furniture, 
and  stumbled  into  their  parents' 
arms. 

"Let's  see  what  we're  doing," 
said  Mr.  Matlock.  “Have  we  any 
candles?" 

“I'll  find  them."  Mrs.  Matlock 
disentangled  herself.  They  heard 


76 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


her  rummaging  in  the  kitchen  and 
striking  a match.  In  a minute  she 
was  back,  in  either  hand  a candle 
stuck  to  a saucer. 

''Now,  kids,  there’s  nothing  to 
be  scared  about,”  said  their  father 
in  tones  which  he  wished  were 
considerably  firmer.  "You  know 
how  often  the  power  fails  in  a 
storm.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  green  snow.” 

"I  think,”  said  Mrs.  Matlock, 
"we  should  all  calm  down  and  be 
sensible  and  go  to  bed  where  we’ll 
be  safe  and  warm  and  have  a good 
sleep.  Then  in  the  morning  if  the 
electricity’s  still  off  at  least  we’ll 
find  out  from  the  paper  what  this 
is  all  about  and  what  they  want  us 
to  do.” 

"I’ll  second  that,”  her  husband 
said.  "Come  on,  kids,  back  to  bed, 
both  of  you.” 

"Can  I have  Laird  with  me?” 
Bruce  asked  eagerly.  That  was  a 
rarely  granted  treat  for  both  boy 
and  dog. 

"May  I.  Yes,  if  he  wants  to.  And 
if  you  want  the  cats,  Norma,  and 
they’re  willing — ” 

Bruce  screamed. 

"Look!”  he  cried,  pointing  a 
trembling  finger  at  the  front  door 
that  opened  into  the  living  room. 

Dimly,  in  the  candlelight,  they 
all  saw  it. 

A long,  snakelike  trail  of  green 
— something,  creeping  under  the 
sill. 

It  wasn’t  wet;  it  left  no  mois- 
ture behind  it.  Whatever  it  was,  it 


had  separated  from  the  ordinary 
snow  that  had  been  its  means  of 
transport.  As  they  stared,  the  trail 
widened. 

The  two  cats  went  wild.  They 
clawed  their  way  up  the  curtains, 
couldn’t  get  a purchase  at  the  top, 
and  both  fell  back  again.  The  dog 
shook  and  whimpered,  his  eyes  ter- 
rified. The  humans  for  a long  min- 
ute were  paralyzed  with  fear;  then 
the  older  Matlocks  pulled  them- 
selves together. 

"The  phone!”  Mrs.  Matlock 
breathed. 

"No  use — who’d  you  call?  Try 
it,  but  I’m  sure  it’s  dead.” 

It  was;  there  was  no  dial  tone. 
Stepping  gingerly  around  the 
growing  greenness,  she  tiptoed 
back  to  the  others. 

"Let’s  get  out  of  here  while  we 
can,”  her  husband  ordered.  "Our 
bedroom  will  be  best — it’s  largest 
Quick  march,  kids.  Careful,  now — 
go  around,  and  through  the  dining 
room  to  the  hall.  I’ll  take  the  can- 
dles.” 

The  stairs  were  still  clear, 
though  the  hall  was  half  covered. 
Too  frightened  to  talk,  the  chil- 
dren raced  ahead  of  them.  Once  in 
the  room,  Mrs.  Matlock  tore  a 
blanket  from  the  bed  and  Matlock 
stufiFed  it  tightly  against  the  dooi^ 
sill. 

"That  won’t  hold  long,”  he  said. 
"What  have  we  here  to  reinforce 
it?” 

The  curtain  rods  were  iron. 
Matlock  stood  on  a chair,  pulled 


THE  GREEN  SNOW 


77 


the  curtains  down,  and  added 
them,  rods  and  all,  to  the  barrier. 

Just  as  they  were,  the  children 
threw  themselves  on  the  bed,  the 
dog  between  them.  They  had  not 
been  able  to  corral  the  frantic  cats. 
In  a few  minutes  aU  three  were 
deep  in  the  sleep  of  exhaustion. 
The  parents,  too  tense  to  think  of 
sleeping,  stood  together  at  the 
window  that  looked  on  the  front 
garden,  whispering  for  the  chil- 
dren's sake. 

‘If  we  can  hold  out  till  day- 
light,**  he  said,  “perhaps  we'll  be 
able  to  get  some  idea  of  what's  hap- 
pened— and  what  we  can  do  about 
it** 

“If  anything.** 

“If  anything.  We've  got  to  face 
that.  Can  you  see  anything  out 
there?" 

“Not  much.  The  snow  seems  to 
be  turning  white." 

“As  whatever  it  is  leaves  it." 

“Yes.  Will  it  fin  the  whole 
house?" 

“How  do  I know?  The  whole 
town,  perhaps — the  whole  State." 

“The  whole  world."  Mrs.  Mat- 
lock  shuddered.  In  the  candlelight 
Matlock  looked  at  his  watch.  Not 
even  ten  yet.  Nine  long  dreadful 
hours  to  sunrise. 

“Darling,"  he  said,  “if  this  is  it 
— it's  been  a good  life.  And  you 
were  the  best  thing  in  it." 

“And  you  for  me."  For  a long 
time  they  were  silent. 

At  last  she  murmured,  “If  it 
comes  to  that — if  there's  no  hope 


left  at  all — I don't  want  them 
smothered  by  that  horrible  thing. 
What  can  we  do?" 

“There's  the  gun  in  the  dresser 
drawer.  And  not  just  them — there 
are  enough  bullets  for  us  all.  I'll 
take  care  of  it.  But  only  if  it's  an 
absolute  certainty.” 

“Of  course.  And  you  must  be 
sure  there's  one  left  for  you." 

“I  promise." 

There  was  a sudden  chorus  of 
shrieks  from  downstairs.  White 
and  shaking,  they  listened.  Bruce 
stirred  and  muttered,  then  fell 
asleep  again.  The  dog  awoke, 
jumped  oflE  the  bed,  and  stood, 
panting,  at  the  barricaded  door. 
Matlock  crossed  the  room,  caught 
him  by  the  collar,  and  brought  him 
back  to  the  window  where  Mrs. 
Matlock  knelt  on  a pillow,  staring 
through  the  pane.  Laird  laid  his 
head  against  her  knees  and  she 
reached  down  to  stroke  him  until 
he  lay  quiet  again.  The  shrieks 
ended  abruptly.  There  was  no  fur- 
ther sound. 

“Marse  and  Miss,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

“Probably,"  he  said  grimly. 

Her  knees  hurt  and  she  rose 
stiffly  and  fell  into  an  armchair. 
The  dog  followed  her,  as  if  reluc- 
tant to  be  separated.  Matlock 
sighed. 

“I  suppose,"  he  said,  “there's  no 
point  in  even  speculating  what  it 
is  or  where  it  comes  from.  A scien- 
tist would  think  that  was  the  most 
important  thing.  Me,  all  I want  to 


78 

find  out  is  when  or  whether  it 
stops,  and  how  we  get  away  from 
it — if  we  do/' 

'1  wish  we  dared  open  the 
door,”  his  wife  supplemented,  "so 
we  could  see  how  things  are  now/' 

"Well,  we  don't/' 

Better  not  tell  her,  he  thought, 
that  the  wadded  mass  against  the 
doorcrack  had  moved  a little,  more 
than  once,  as  if  experimentally. 
Instead,  on  pretense  of  stretching 
his  cramped  muscles,  he  went  un- 
obtrusively over  to  the  door  and 
pushed  the  barricade  firmly  with 
his  toe.  He  looked  about  him  for 
something  better.  In  the  closet  was 
a heavy  box  containing  shoe-shin- 
ing materials.  Casting  a glance  at 
his  wife  to  make  sure  she  was  look- 
ing elsewhere,  he  fetched  it  and 
laid  it  against  the  door.  Straighten- 
ing up,  he  saw  her  eyes  upon  him. 

"Let's  not  pretend,  dear,”  she 
said  quietly.  He  went  to  her  and 
sat  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and 
clasped  her  to  him.  A tear  fell  on 
his  hand.  "Don't  cry,  sweetheart,” 
he  whispered.  "I'm  not,”  she  said, 
blinking  away  the  tears.  "It's  just 
— we  can  at  least  think  how  to 
fight  this  thing,  even  if  we  don't 
win — but  poor  little  Marse  and 
Miss!”  He  bent  and  kissed  her  wet 
cheek. 

They  blew  out  the  candles — 
who  knew  how  long  they  would 
need  their  only  artificial  source  of 
light? — and  began  to  wait  out  the 
endless  hours.  Once  in  a while,  in 
the  stillness  and  darkness,  one  or 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

the  other  of  them  would  fall  into 
an  uneasy  doze,  awakening  with  a 
startled  jerk.  And  at  last  the  long 
night  ended;  the  day  broke  with  a 
cloudless  sky,  and  they  could  see 
the  outside  world  again . 

The  snow  of  last  night's  storm 
lay  thick  on  the  trees  and  bushes 
and  in  untrodden  drifts  on  the 
ground.  It  was  pure  white,  as  new 
snow  always  was.  There  was  noth- 
ing left  of  the  green. 

The  children  stirred  and  the 
dog  went  padding  over  to  them. 
Cautiously  Matlock  lifted  the  win- 
dow and  stuck  his  head  and  shoul- 
ders out  to  view  the  scene.  Their 
next  door  neighbor's  house  was  as 
untouched,  from  without,  as  their 
own. 

He  had  had  plenty  of  time  to 
plan. 

He  stooped  and  laid  his  hand 
against  the  barrier  at  the  door.  He 
could  feel  no  pressure.  But  he 
dared  not  open  the  door  to  see  what 
lay  beyond. 

‘Tack  a small  bag  with  anything 
in  this  room  you  very  much  want 
to  keep,”  he  said,  "and  find  some 
things  of  ours  to  keep  the  kids 
warm.  I'll  wake  them.  Then  all  of 
us  can  get  to  work  and  make  a 
firmly  knotted  rope  out  of  the 
sheets  and  blankets.  We  can't  go 
through  the  house  or  downstairs, 
but  as  far  as  I can  see  it's  all  clear 
outside,  so  we  must  get  out  through 
the  window  and  then,  if  we  can 
get  into  the  garage,  into  the  cars 
and  away  from  here.” 


THE  GREEN  SNOW 


79 


"And  if  we  can't?"' 

"Then  we'll  have  to  start  walk- 
ing and  pray  we  can  reach  safety 
and  other  people  somewhere.  I'U 
go  first,  to  test  the  rope  and  help 
die  rest  of  you  down.  Throw  me 
the  bag  and  then  send  first  Norma 
and  then  Bruce  and  then  Laird, 
and  I'll  catch  them  if  they  slip. 
Then  come  down  yourself,  and 
we'll  all  be  there  to  help  you." 

She  swayed  and  shut  her  eyes, 
but  she  had  nothing  better  to  offer. 
Without  a word  she  began  packing 
her  jewelry,  and  what  else  of  value 
she  could  find,  into  a small  bag. 

Twenty  minrtes  later  they  all 
stood,  shaken  bilt  intact,  in  the 
snowy  garden.  With  the  resilience 
of  childhood,  it  had  become  an  ex- 
citing adventure  to  Norma  and 
Bruce,  giggling  at  the  sight  of  each 
other  draped  in  their  parents'  coats 
and  with  their  feet  waddling  awk- 
wardly in  their  parents'  shoes 
stuffed  with  hosiery  to  keep  them 
on.  All  the  galoshes  and  rubber 
boots  were  downstairs. 

"Stand  back,"  Matlock  com- 
manded. "I'm  going  to  open  the 
door  of  the  garage." 

It  was  just  as  they  had  left  it; 
there  had  been  nothing  living  in  it 
to  attract  the  rapacious  greenness. 

All  the  other  houses  on  their 
street  were  shut  and  silent.  It  was 
easy  to  guess  what  it  looked  like 
inside  them.  Matlock  drove  the 
larger  car  with  Bruce  and  Norma; 
his  wife  followed  in  the  smaller 
car  with  the  dog. 


They  were  outside  their  subur- 
ban town  altogether  and  halfway 
to  the  next  one  before  they  saw  a 
sign  of  hfe.  Trudging  through  the 
snow  came  two  figures  who  waved 
them  to  a stop. 

They  were  a dairy  farmer  and 
his  young  son  whose  house  and 
farm  buildings  could  be  seen 
across  the  fields.  They  had  spent 
the  night  on  the  roof  after  the 
green  stuff  had  left  the  snow  and 
begun  to  enter  the  house.  In  the 
morning  they  had  climbed  down 
and  looked  through  a kitchen  win- 
dow from  the  outside.  Everything 
inside  was  blanketed  with  green, 
like  a rough  carpet  made  up  of 
millions  of  tiny  knots.  The  thing 
lay  absolutely  still;  it  was  either 
dead  or  comatose.  Matlock  went 
back  with  them  on  foot  to  the  big 
barn.  Carefully  they  opened  the 
door  a crack,  ready  to  slam  it  shut 
again.  Floor  and  walls  were  solid 
green.  Showing  through  it  were  the 
clean  bones  of  all  the  cows. 

"Thank  God  there  was  only  us 
left  here,"  the  farmer  choked.  "My 
wife  died  last  year  and  my  daugh- 
ter's married  and  lives  out  West. 
And  the  men  that  work  for  me 
don't  live  in.  But  there  goes  every- 
thing we  had  in  the  world." 

‘Torget  it,  dad,"  the  boy  growled, 
near  tears.  "We're  lucky  to  be  here 
ourselves.  If  we  can  get  one  of  the 
trucks  going  we'd  better  make 
tracks  away  from  here.  Which  way 
are  you  headed.  Mister?" 

"Just  away,"  said  Matlock.  "As 


80 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


far  as  we  can  get,  hoping  we  can 
reach  the  end  of  this.  If  it  was  lim- 
ited to  any  one  region,  no  matter 
how  large,  we  can  find  some  sort 
of  refuge  until  things  get  sorted 
out.  Come  along  with  us  if  you 
like." 

“We’ll  be  a disaster  area,  all 
right,"  the  farmer  said,  brighten- 
ing. “Maybe  the  government  will 
compensate  us,  once  they’ve  fig- 
ured out  what  the  devil  this  thing 
is  and  just  how  much  damage  it’s 
done." 

If  there’s  any  government  left, 
Matlock  thought  gloomily;  but 
there  was  no  need  to  make  things 
worse.  “How  are  you  fixed  for  gas?” 
he  asked.  “We’ve  got  plenty,”  the 
son  said.  “We’ll  load  the  truck  and 
share  and  share  alike." 

The  little  procession  started  off 
again.  The  road  was  bare  of  traffic; 
no  snow  plows  were  out.  They  had 
gone  a mile  before  diey  saw  even 
one  stalled  car.  As  they  passed 
around  it,  Matlock  looked  through 
its  window,  and  wished  he  hadn’t. 
They  must  have  had  to  open  the 
window  for  fresh  air,  before  the 
green  menace  had  begun  to  leave 
the  snow.  From  the  contorted  pos- 
tures of  the  skeletons,  the  two  oc- 
cupants must  have  gone  down 
fighting  the  thing  that  had  first 
overwhelmed  and  then  devoured 
them. 

Two  hours  later  they  realized 
they  were  nearing  the  limit  of  the 
invasion.  Snow  plows  were  work- 
ing, cars  were  being  towed  away. 


They  reached  the  outskirts  of  a 
town  and  people  were  on  the  side- 
walks and  traffic  on  the  streets. 

“Where’s  the  town  hall?"  Mat- 
lock  asked  a passer-by. 

By  mid-afternoon  the  Matlocks 
and  the  couple  from  the  dairy  farm 
had  become  only  part  of  a mass  of 
refugees. 

A week  later  the  500  square 
miles  affected  had  been  mopped 
up.  There  were  hundreds  of  res- 
cues, but  the  dead — often  the  un- 
identifiable dead,  unless  the  skele- 
tons were  found  in  their  own 
homes,  surrounded  by  the  tatters  of 
their  own  clothing — ran  into 
thousands.  Nobody  knew,  or  ever 
would  know,  if  the  Green  Things 
(the  popular  name  that  clung  to 
them)  had  been  dead  the  next  day 
from  exhaustion  and  repletion,  or 
merely  sleeping  off  their  giant 
feast.  Armor-clad  teams  attacked 
them  with  poison  gas  and  then 
with  blow-torches  that  turned 
them  into  flakes  of  carbon.  Sections 
of  the  material  were  removed  first 
and  turned  over,  in  sealed  contain- 
ers, to  the  laboratories  for  further 
investigation;  and  by  that  time 
they  were  certainly  dead. 

The  final  report  was  that  the 
green  mass  was  made  up  of  billions 
of  discrete  particles.  The  nearest 
analogy  to  their  composition  being 
some  species  of  lichen.  They  were 
protein  compounds,  but  of  an  ut- 
terly unfamiliar  variety.  Whatever 
their  place  of  origin,  it  seemed 
probable  that  they  had  been  drift- 


THE  GREEN  SNOW 


81 


ing  in  the  atmosphere,  had  been 
trapped  in  snow-heavy  clouds,  and 
deposited  on  earth  so  mixed  with 
the  snow  as  to  give  it  its  weird 
green  color. 

Where  had  they  come  from?  The 
scientific  journals  and  the  science 
columns  of  the  newspapers  were 
full  of  conflicting  theories  and  ex- 
planations. 

It  was  a full  year  later  that  the 
Matlocks,  in  their  new  house,  ran 
across  the  first  pubhc  revelation  of 
the  Vovoidsky  Solution — at  first 
hotly  disputed  and  ridiculed,  then, 
with  further  incontrovertible  evi- 
dence, gradually  accepted  until 
both  the  United  States  and  the  So- 
viet Union  were  forced  to  face  the 
issue  and  alter  their  plans  to  meet 
it. 

Professor  Vovoidsky,  who  fortu- 
nately for  the  political  repercus- 
sions was  living  and  working  in 
neutral  Sweden,  proved  to  his  own 
satisfaction,  and  ultimately  to  the 
reluctant  conviction  of  everyone, 
that  the  Green  Things  had  been 
tom  from  their  age-old  habitat  by 
the  first  instrument-landings  on 
the  moon. 

How  they  had  been  propelled 
then,  even  in  the  moon’s  weak 
gravity,  into  outer  space  was  still 
not  altogether  clear;  further  lu- 
nar exploration  (this  time  with 
special  precautions)  might  explain 
that.  But  propelled  they  had  been, 
and  had  drifted  earthward,  frozen 
into  immobility.  Once  in  the 
earth’s  atmosphere,  they  would 


eventually  have  been  dissipated, 
destroyed  by  the  sun’s  rays,  as 
doubtless  many  other  congeries  of 
them  had  been,  had  they  not  for- 
tuitously met  those  heavy  clouds 
and  ridden  the  snow  to  this  small 
geographical  area.  Once  on  the 
ground,  the  relative  warmth  had 
gradually  revived  them.  Whatever 
they  fed  on  by  nature  (it  was  prob- 
ably, Vovoidsky  surmised,  each 
other),  they  were  protein-eaters, 
and  they  were  ravenous.  They 
moved  very  slowly,  but  they  moved, 
and  no  unprepared  victim  could 
stop  them  as  they  sensed  and  ap- 
proached living  matter  that  could 
be  made  into  food. 

Vovoidsky  received  the  next 
year’s  Nobel  Prize  for  chemistry. 
In  his  speech  of  acceptance  he  in- 
veighed bitterly  against  what  he 
called  the  '’idiotic  fairy  tale”  of  the 
celebrated  archaeologist  von  Heve- 
nin.  Von  Hevinin  had  had  the 
audacity  to  present  seriously  the 
most  far-fetched  gloss  on  the  Vo- 
voidsky Solution  that  had  yet  ap- 
peared among  so  many  far-fetched 
ones. 

Myth,  von  Hevinin  maintained, 
constituted  the  blurred  memory  of 
historical  fact.  Folk-sayings  were 
the  distorted  and  degenerate  des- 
cendants of  valid  scientific  state- 
ments. 

It  was  his  opinion  that  in  the  re- 
mote past,  thousands  of  years  ago, 
someone  before  us  had  landed  on 
or  at  least  landed  instruments  on 
the  moon,  that  this  was  not  the 


82 

first  time  a portion  of  the  green 
covering  of  its  rough  surface  had 
been  dislodged,  shot  into  space, 
and  fallen  to  earth,  devouring  all 
life  where  it  alighted. 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

For  is  there  not  an  immemorial 
folk-saying,  a universal  childish 
fantasy,  which  runs  to  the  efiFect 
that  the  moon  is  made  of  green 
cheese? 


THE  GODS 

The  ghosts  of  gods  were  marching  down  the  hallway  of  the  past; 

The  shuffle  of  their  footsteps  woke  me  from  my  sleep  at  last; 

I stared  into  the  darkness,  and  I shuddered  as  they  passed. 

A grim  and  one-eyed  Odin  strode,  and  hammer-wielding  Thor, 

And  there  were  golden-bearded  Zeus  and  Ares,  god  of  war, 

And  Mithra,  Ler,  Ganesha,  Ra,  Shamash,  and  many  more. 

I looked  on  Quetzalcoatl’s  plumes  and  Loki's  hair  of  fire; 

Along  with  Krishna’s  flute  I heard  Apollo’s  twanging  lyre; 

I caught  a wink  from  Pan  and  witnessed  Ishtar’s  fierce  desire. 

Just  then  a funny,  ibis-headed  godlet  caught  my  eye. 

‘‘Come  here  and  tell  me,  Thoth!”  I called.  The  bird-head  wafted  nigh. 
“What  means  this  rout  of  deities?  Where  go  they  hence,  and  why?"' 

“As  you  create  us,  you  destroy  us,”  said  the  long-billed  wight, 

“And  those  that  you’ve  discarded  here  have  yielded  up  their  might; 
“They’re  bound  for  non-existence  in  the  quiet  lands  of  night.” 

“And  what  of  those  who  stand  aloof — the  four  with  beards?"’  I cried. 
“They’re  Christ  and  Yahveh,  Marx  and  Lenin,”  Thoth  the  Wise  replied. 
Although  these  four  are  worshiped  now,  they  will  not  long  abide.” 

“Will  earth  be  godless,  then?”  I said,  and  Thoth  responded:  “Nay! 
’‘You’ll  make  more  gods,  in  names  of  whom  to  burn  and  maim  and  slaju* 
“What  sort  of  gods?  Abstractions  pale,  or  bloodless  theories,  say?” 

But  Thoth  of  Egypt  turned  away  and  went  in  silence  dumb. 

I thought  of  Venus’  bosom,  heard  afar  Damballa’s  drum. 

And  wept  the  old  gods,  passing  on,  and  feared  the  gods  to  come. 


— L.  Sprague  de  Camf 


SCIENCE 


THE  SYMBOL-MINDED 
CHEMIST 

by  Isaac  Asimov 


I VIEW  WITH  EQUANIMITY  THE  growing  numcralization  of  our  soci- 
ety. Calmly,  I have  memorized  my  zip-code  number,  my  social  security 
number,  my  area  code  number,  and  my  all-numeral  telephone  number. 
I am  even  glad  that  Massachusetts  has,  for  the  most  part,  all-numeral 
license  plates.  I have  memorized  the  numbers  on  both  my  cars. 

I was  actually  relieved  to  see  letter  combinations  go.  For  me,  such 
things  are  confusing.  When  I was  attending  Columbia  University,  for 
instance,  there  were  many  cars  parked  in  its  vicinity  with  license  plates 
that  began  with  CU.  I would  pass  a car  with  a license  number  CU- 
1234,  let  us  say,  and  in  my  mind  a maddening  little  voice  would  say 
''copper-1 234”  because  Cu  is  the  chemical  symbol  for  copper. 

Here  in  Newton,  the  town  I live  in,  we  have  three  telephone  ex- 
changes, two  of  which  are  Lasell  and  Bigelow.  To  me,  the  number  LA5- 
1234  is  “Lanthanum  5-1234”  and  the  number  BI4-1234  is  “Bismuth 
4-1234”.  Sometimes  I ask  for  telephone  numbers  in  that  fashion  and 
produce  alarm  and  despondency  in  the  fair  young  things  at  the  other 
end  of  the  wire.  (I  once  asked  for  a Dewey-2  number,  pronouncing  it 
precisely  as  Dyoo-ee,  as  is  my  wont,  and  the  dear  young  operator  asked 
me“IsthatD-U?”) 

Well,  then,  since  I am  talking  about  telephone  exchanges  and  chemi- 
cal symbols;  and  since  telephone  exchanges  are  disappearing;  let's  con- 
centrate on  chemical  symbols.  (How's  that  for  sneakiness?) 

I strongly  suspect  that  the  advance  of  science  or  any  branch  of  it 
depends  upon  the  development  of  a simple  and  standardized  language 

83 


84 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


into  which  its  concepts  can  be  put.  Only  in  this  manner  can  one  scien- 
tist understand  another  in  his  field.  Without  it,  communication  breaks 
down  and,  as  a result,  everything  else  does,  too. 

Prior  to  the  eighteenth  century,  for  instance,  there  was  no  generally 
agreed-upon  chemical  language.  On  the  contrary,  alchemists  gloried  in 
obscurity  and  made  up  the  most  fanciful  apellations  for  the  various 
substances  they  worked  with.  Using  mythology  and  metaphor  they  strove 
to  make  themselves  sound  mystical  and  great  and  to  obscure  the  fact 
that,  in  general,  they  didn't  know  what  they  were  talking  about.  (There 
were  honorable  exceptions,  of  course.) 

The  result  was  that  when  serious  chemists  arose,  they  found  they 
could  not  understand  the  work  of  the  past  (and  among  the  alchemical 
fakery  and  nonsense  were  hidden  some  real  and  important  achieve- 
ments it  would  have  been  important  to  unearth).  They  could  scarcely 
understand  each  other,  in  fact,  and  chemistry  could  advance  only  with 
difficulty,  if  at  all. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century,  chemists  were  painfully 
aware  of  the  language  difficulty;  and,  in  1782,  the  French  chemist, 
Louis  Bernard  Guyton  de  Morveau,  published  a paper  pointing  out  the 
need  for  a systematized,  simple  and  logical  chemical  nomenclature. 

This  caught  the  eye  of  Antoine  Laurent  Lavoisier  (see  SLOW 
BURN,  F & SF,  October  1962),  the  foremost  chemist  of  the  time.  He 
joined  with  Guyton  de  Morveau  and  with  two  other  chemists,  Claude 
Louis  Berthollet  and  Antoine  Francois  de  Fourcroy  to  work  out  such  a 
language,  and  by  1 7 8 7,  this  was  done. 

It  is  the  chemical  language  we  still  use  today.  When  we  speak  of 
"sodium  chloride”  or  "sulfuric  acid”  or  "potassium  periodate”  we  are 
using  the  language  worked  out  by  Lavoisier  and  the  rest,  and  it  works 
fine. 

At  least  it  works  fine  for  inorganic  compounds  which  have  relatively 
simple  compositions.  Organic  compounds  (those  containing  carbon  and 
hydrogen  atoms)  are  another  matter  entirely.  They  proved  to  be  entirely 
too  complicated  for  Lavoisier’s  simple  language. 

Organic  nomenclature  grew  almost  haphazardly  and  was  filled  with 
"trivid  names”  (names  that  are  made  up  without  any  reference  to — or, 
sometimes,  knowledge  of — the  constitution  of  the  compound),  most  of 
which  can’t  be  gotten  rid  of  now.  It  was  not  until  1892  that,  at  an  In- 
ternational Congress  of  chemists  held  in  Geneva,  a systematic  nomen- 
clature for  organic  compounds  was  worked  out,  a nomenclature  that 
could  be  used  to  write  the  molecular  structure  of  any  compound  named. 

For  instance,  if  someone  gives  me  the  name  "9,12,1 5-octadeca- 


THE  SYMBOL-MINDED  CHEMIST 


85 


trienoic  acid*'  I can  write  the  formula  of  that  compound,  since  I happen 
to  know  the  Geneva  nomenclature;  and  I can  do  so  even  if  I have  never 
heard  of  that  particular  compound  before.  If  I am,  however,  given  the 
equivalent  trivial  name  of  the  compound;  that  is,  linolenic  acid;  then 
I am  helpless.  I either  happen  to  know  the  formula  or  I am  stuck. 

Still,  while  words  are  useful  and  even  satisfactory  for  inorganic 
compounds  and  for  organic  compounds  that  are  not  too  complicated, 
they  are  not  the  ultimate.  Something  still  simpler  than  words,  and 
something  capable  of  more  graphic  combination  to  show  molecular 
structure,  is  needed. 

The  first  opportunity  to  pass  beyond  words  came  in  the  opening 
decade  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  the  English  chemist,  John  Dal- 
ton, worked  out  the  modern  atomic  theory.  Dalton  suggested  that  all 
matter  was  made  up  of  atoms,  that  each  element  was  made  up  of  a dis- 
tinct species  of  atom,  and  that  materials  that  were  not  elements  were 
composed  of  atoms  of  different  elements  in  close  association.  Why, 
then,  should  we  not  represent  each  different  kind  of  atom  or  element 
with  some  sort  of  symbol?  The  structure  of  compounds  (substances 
that  are  not  elements)  can  then  be  shown  by  putting  together  the  sym- 
bols of  different  atoms  in  appropriate  combination  to  form  what  even- 
tually came  to  be  called  molecules. 

In  1808,  Dalton  published  his  symbols.  Each  atom  was  a little  cir- 
cle, naturally,  and  different  atoms  were  distinguished  by  small  varia- 
tions among  the  circles.  An  unadorned  circle  represented  an  oxygen 
atom;  a circle  with  a dot  in  the  middle  was  a hydrogen  atom;  a circle 
with  a vertical  line  dividing  it  into  equal  halves  was  a nitrogen  atom; 
a circle  that  was  blacked  in  completely  was  a carbon  atom,  and  so  on. 

These  circles  looked  very  graphic,  but  they  were  '‘trivial.”  Nothing 
about  them  necessarily  suggested  which  element  they  represented  (al- 
though the  black  circle  did  suggest  the  blackness  of  carbon).  They  had 
to  be  memorized. 

What's  more,  although  the  number  of  elements  known  in  1808  was 
far  smaller  than  those  known  today,  there  were  still  too  many  to  be  con- 
veniently represented  by  sheer  geometry.  Dalton  found  himself  forced 
to  use  initials.  The  sulfur  atom  was  represented  by  a circle  with  an  “S” 
inside;  the  phosphorus  atom  by  a circle  with  a “P”  inside  and  so  on. 

The  Swedish  chemist,  Jons  Jakob  Berzelius,  went  a step  farther  in 
1814.  Why  bother  with  circles  if  one  had  to  place  initials  inside? 
Surely  the  initials  were  sufficient  in  themselves.  S and  P could  stand 
for  sulfur  and  phosphorus,  respectively,  without  the  enclosing  circle. 


86 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


As  far  as  possible,  Berzelius  suggested,  each  element  ought  to  be 
represented  by  its  initial.  If  more  than  one  element  began  with  the 
same  letter,  one  could  be  represented  by  the  initial  and  the  rest  by  die 
initial  plus  a second  letter  distinctive  enough  to  suggest  the  name  of 
the  element.  Thus,  if  carbon  is  represented  as  C,  then  chlorine  can  be 
represented  as  Cl,  chromium  as  Cr  and  cobalt  as  Co. 

Berzelius’s  system  was  adopted  almost  at  once,  remains  in  force  to 
the  present  day,  and  will  probably  never  be  changed.  The  letter  or  let- 
ters representing  the  element  in  general  (or  a single  atom  of  that  ele- 
ment in  particular)  are  known  as  the  “chemical  symbol”  of  that  ele- 
ment, and  to  any  professional  chemist  they  become  so  familiar  that, 
as  in  my  case,  telephone  exchanges  and  automobile  licenses  become 
elements. 

It  is  a sad  commentary  on  human  nature  that  John  Dalton,  a gentle 
Quaker,  a noble  character,  and  a great  man  of  science,  could  not  bring 
himself  to  accept  what  the  whole  world,  then  and  since,  agreed  was  an 
improvement  on  his  own  suggestion.  To  Dalton,  Berzelius’s  system  was 
no  more  than  an  alphabet  soup  which  he  felt  sure  would  not  establish 
itself.  He  was  wrong. 

Berzelius  had  a rather  complicated  system  for  envisaging  the  manner 
in  which  these  chemical  symbols  of  the  elements  could  be  put  together 
to  suggest  molecular  structure.  That  part  of  his  system  was  abandoned 
in  favor  of  the  use  of  numbers.  Thus,  if  the  water  molecule  contains 
two  hydrogen  atoms  and  one  oxygen  atom,  it  is  H2O;  if  the  sulfuric 
acid  molecule  contains  two  hydrogen  atoms,  a sulfur  atom  and  four 
oxygen  atoms,  it  is  H2SO4,  and  so  on. 

Such  a system  is  quite  satisfactory  for  most  inorganic  compounds 
and  a few  organic  ones.  However,  in  organic  chemistry,  all  but  a very 
few  kinds  of  molecules  have  such  complicated  structures  that  a mere 
enumeration  of  atoms  is  insufficient.  Special  “structural  formulas”  had 
to  be  invented,  but  that  is  another  story  for  another  time. 

Suppose,  then,  that  we  concentrate  only  on  the  chemical  symbols  of 
the  elements  themselves  for  the  rest  of  the  article,  and  forget  about 
molecules.  Ideally,  there  should  be  only  initials,  but  there  are  only  26 
letters  to  the  alphabet  and  there  are  more  than  26  different  elements. 

In  fact,  there  are  104  elements  known  at  present.  Of  these,  the 
104th  has  recently  been  discovered  by  Soviet  scientists  and  has  not  yet 
been  given  a name  and  a symbol.  Still  that  leaves  103  elements  with 
names  and  symbols  so  chemists  are  forced,  whether  they  will  or  no,  into 
two-letter  symbols.  Fortunately,  nothing  more  is  needed.  There  are 


THE  SYMBOL-MINDED  CHEMIST 


87 


26  X 26  or  676  different  two-letter  combinations  and  we  are  not  likely 
ever  to  reach  that  number  of  elements. 

In  fact,  when  later  chemists  considered  the  matter,  they  were  sorry 
that  single  letters  had  ever  been  used  for  symbols.  It  was  neater  to  be 
uniform  and  since  it  was  impossible  to  give  every  element  a one-letter 
symbol,  it  would  have  been  desirable  to  give  every  element,  without 
exception,  a two-letter  symbol.  For  that  reason  chemists  have,  in  the 
last  century,  usually  given  new  elements  two-letter  symbols  even  when 
a one-letter  symbol  was  available. 

Those  elements  that  are  now  represented  by  a single  letter  were,  in 
almost  every  case,  known  at  the  time  that  Berzelius  was  establishing 
his  system  and  they  received  their  symbols  then.  The  initial  letters  were 
then  frozen  into  chemical  history  and  can  no  longer  be  changed.  So 
many  thousands  of  papers  and  books  have  referred  to  the  oxygen  atom 
as  O so  many  millions  of  times  that  to  begin  to  refer  to  the  oxygen  atom 
as  Ox,  for  instance,  is  now  unthinkable. 

Sixteen  elements  are  symbolized  (or  have  been  symbolized)  by  single 
letters.  Let’s  list  them  in  the  order  of  discovery: 


Table  1 — Smgle-Letter  Symbols 


Element 

Symbol 

Year  of  Discovery 

Carbon 

C 

prehistoric 

Sulfur 

s 

prehistoric 

Phosphorus 

p 

1669 

Nitrogen 

N 

1772 

Oxygen 

O 

1774 

Tungsten 

w 

1783 

Uranium 

u 

1789 

Hydrogen 

H 

1790 

Yttrium 

Y 

1794 

Potassium 

K 

1807 

Boron 

B 

1808 

Iodine 

I 

1811 

Vanadium 

V 

1830 

Fluorine 

F 

1886 

Argon 

A 

1894 

Einsteinium 

E 

1952 

Of  these  sixteen,  twelve  were  known  at  the  time  that  Berzelius  first 
advanced  his  system,  and  vanadium  was  discovered  while  the  system 


88 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


was  Still  young.  One-letter  symbols  were  viewed  favorably  then.  Fluorine 
was  not  isolated  till  1886,  but  its  existence  was  known  in  Berzelius's 
time  (see  DEATH  IN  THE  LABORATORY,  F & SF,  September  1965). 
It  had  been  named  then  and  had  received  its  symbol. 

Only  two  elements  discovered  after  1830,  without  prior  suspicion 
of  their  existence,  were  given  single-letter  symbols.  These  were  argon 
and  einsteinium  and,  as  it  happened,  neither  kept  those  symbols. 

In  1957,  an  official  body  of  chemists  made  some  recommendations 
as  to  chemical  symbols  which  were  adopted.  They  would  gladly,  I sus- 
pect, have  wiped  out  all  one-letter  symbols,  but  they  couldn't.  How- 
ever, they  could  forbid  one-letter  symbols  in  the  future  and  they  could 
tackle  argon  and  einsteinium.  Argon,  as  it  happens,  forms  no  known 
compounds  so  that  its  symbol  is  rarely  used  in  chemical  papers,  and 
einsteinium  had  only  been  known  for  five  years  and  that  in  the  barest 
sub-microscopic  traces  so  that  its  compounds  had  not  been  studied. 
Therefore,  it  was  safe  to  decree  that  the  symbol  for  argon  would  be, 
henceforth,  Ar  instead  of  A,  and  the  symbol  for  einsteinium  would  be 
Es  instead  of  E. 


Looking  at  Table  1,  you  can  see  that  two  of  the  symbols  do  not  appear 
to  be  true  initials.  The  symbol  for  tungsten  is  W and  that  for  potassium 
is  K.  Why  is  that? 

The  answer  is  that  while  in  modem  times  names  given  to  new  ele- 
ments are  accepted  internationally  (with  minor  inflectional  differ- 
ences) this  is  not  trae  of  elements  known  from  ancient  times.  What  we 
call  iron  in  English  is  ‘‘Eisen"  in  German,  “fer"  in  French,  and  ‘Tiierro" 
in  Spanish.  Well,  then,  if  we  use  initials,  should  the  symbol  for  the 
element  be  I,  F,  E,  or  H. 

Berzehus's  decision  (a  wise  one)  was  to  favor  no  living  nation  and 
to  use  the  Latin  names  of  all  elements,  where  those  existed.  As  it  hap- 
pens, eight  of  the  elements  discovered  before  the  custom  of  uniform 
international  usage  was  established  have  names  that  are  distinctly  dif- 
ferent in  English  and  in  Latin.  Three  others  are  different  in  English 
and  in  German  and  international  usage  has  fixed  on  the  German  names 
for  the  symbols.  All  eleven  are  listed  in  alphabetical  order  in  Table  2: 


English 

name 

Antimony 

Copper 


Table  2 — Names  of  Elements 

Latin 

name 

Stibium 

Cuprum 


Symbol 

Sb 

Cu 


THE  SYMBOL-MINDED  CHEMIST 


89 


Gold 

Aurum 

Au 

Iron 

Ferrum 

Fe 

Lead 

Plumbum 

Pb 

Mercury 

Hydrargyrum 

Hg 

Potassium 

Kalium* 

K 

Silver 

Argentum 

Ag 

Sodium 

Natrium* 

Na 

Tin 

Stannum 

Sn 

Tungsten 

Wolfram* 

W 

* German  usage 

Some  of  these  various  names  can  be  traced.  "Cuprum*"  is  supposed  to 
be  derived  from  the  island  of  Cyprus  (Kupros,  in  Greek)  where  copper 
mines  were  found  in  early  ancient  times;  and  from  "cuprum*"  comes 
"copper.** 

"Hydrargyrum**  means  "water-silver**  or  "liquid  silver,**  which  is  an 
apt  description  of  the  element  we  know  as  mercury.  The  old  English 
name  "quicksilver**  is  similar.  "Quick**  means  "alive**  (as  in  "the  quick 
and  the  dead**)  and  quicksilver  darts  here  and  there  like  a living  thing 
when  spilled,  instead  of  sitting  like  a lump  of  ordinary  dead  silver. 

The  name  "mercury**  dates  back  to  the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  al- 
chemists lined  up  the  seven  metals  with  the  seven  planets.  Gold  was 
the  Sun,  silver  was  the  Moon,  and  copper  was  Venus — the  three  most 
precious  metals  lined  up  with  the  three  most  brilliant  planets  in  order 
of  preciousness  and  of  brilliance.  (The  Sun  and  the  Moon  were  con- 
sidered planets  in  the  days  before  Copernicus.)  Iron  was  Mars  because 
iron  is  characteristic  of  the  weapons  of  war;  quicksilver  was  Mercury 
because  Mercury  moved  so  quickly  through  the  heavens,  like  darting 
quicksilver;  and  lead  was  Saturn,  because  Saturn  moved  more  slowly 
than  any  other  planet  and  therefore  seemed  leaden  in  its  motions.  Tin 
was  Jupiter  by  elimination.  Of  these  names,  only  Mercury  maintained 
its  identification,  and  what  was  quicksilver  became  mercury. 

The  remaining  Latin  names:  aurum,  ferrum,  plumbum,  argentum, 
and  stannum,  are  of  uncertain  origin.  Of  the  English  names,  "tin**  may 
possibly  have  come  from  "stannum**;  "iron**  may  come  from  the  same 
source  as  "ore**;  and  "gold**  may  be  derived  from  an  old  Teutonic  word 
for  "yellow.**  (Even  today  the  German  word  for  yellow  is  "gelb.**)  The 
words  "lead**  and  "silver**  are  of  uncertain  origin. 

Antimony  was  discovered  about  1450.  Why  it  should  be  called  anti- 
mony is  unknown,  and  most  derivations  I have  seen  for  it  are  completely 
unconvincing.  Although  the  metal  itself  was  not  known  in  ancient 


90 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


times,  certain  of  its  compounds,  in  powdered  form,  were  used  to  darken 
the  eyelids  (a  kind  of  primitive  mascara)  and  the  Latin  name  “stibium” 
may  come  from  a word  meaning  “mark.”  One  of  the  suggested  deriva- 
tions for  “antimony”  tries  to  obtain  it  from  “stibium”  by  way  of  the 
Arabic. 

Tungsten  occurs  in  a mineral  found  in  Germany  called  “wolframite,” 
a name  of  uncertain  origin.  It  also  occurs  in  a mineral  found  in  Sweden 
and  called  “tungsten”  (meaning  ‘Tieavy  stone”  in  Swedish,  because  the 
mineral  happens  to  be  markedly  denser  than  ordinary  rocks).  The  metal 
occurring  in  these  minerals  was  isolated,  nearly  simultaneously,  in 
Sweden  and  in  Germany;  in  Sweden  by  Karl  Wilhelm  Scheele  and  in 
Germany  by  two  Spanish  brothers,  Fausto  and  Juan  Jose  de  Elhuyar. 
Scheele  called  the  metal  “tungsten”  after  the  mineral,  while  the  min- 
eral was  eventually  given  the  new  name  of  “scheelite”  in  Scheele's 
honor.  The  Elhuyar  brothers  named  the  metal  “wolfram,”  from  the  min- 
eral. In  English,  tungsten  came  into  use,  but  international  usage  drew 
the  chemical  symbol  for  the  element  from  wolfram. 

There  is  an  element  that  can  be  isolated  from  a compound  known  as 
“soda  niter.”  In  1807,  the  English  chemist,  Humphry  Davy,  isolated  it 
from  another  compound  called  simply  “soda”  and  he  named  it  “sodium” 
in  consequence.  The  Germans,  however,  preferred  to  concentrate  on 
the  “niter”  and  they  named  it  “Natrium.”  International  usage  settled  on 
the  Natrium  for  the  symbol.  Another  element  found  in  soda  niter  came 
to  be  called  “nitrogen”  in  English,  so  that  “nitrogen”  and  “Natrium” 
are,  in  essence,  the  same  word,  although  they  describe  two  entirely  dif- 
ferent elements. 

In  ancient  times,  a useful  chemical  was  obtained  by  burning  certain 
plants  in  large  pots  and  leaching  the  ashes  with  water.  In  English  the 
resulting  compound,  in  very  straightforward  fashion,  was  called  “pot 
ash”  which  was  eventually  run  into  a single  word — potash. 

In  Arabic,  however,  the  substance  was  “al-kili,”  meaning  “the  ash.” 
The  substance  is  what  chemists  would  nowadays  call  a fairly  strong 
base  and  such  substances  are  now  called  “alkalis” — from  the  Arabic. 

A metal  was  isolated  by  Humphry  Davy  in  1807  from  potash,  and  he 
named  it  “potassium.”  The  German  chemists,  however,  preferred  to  go 
to  the  Arabic  and  from  al-kili  came  “Kalium.”  It  was  the  latter  from 
which  the  chemical  symbol  was  drawn. 

You  mustn't  think,  though,  that  German  youngsters  studying  chem- 
istry have  it  better  than  we  do  because  Na,  K,  and  W make  immediate 
sense  to  them  and  not  to  us. 


THE  SYMBOL-MINDED  CHEMIST 


91 


The  Germans,  generally,  are  rather  reluctant  to  make  use  of  Greek 
and  Latin  words  in  forming  their  own  terms,  but  stick  to  German.  We 
have  hydrogen  GVater-producer")>  oxygen  (“acid-producer”)  and  ni- 
trogen (“niter-producer”)  as  three  very  common  and  important  ele- 
ments— with  names  derived  from  the  Greek. 

The  German  equivalents,  in  down-to-Earth  German  are  Wasserstoff 
(“water-substance”),  SauerstoflP  (“acid-substance”)  and  Stickstoff 
(“sufiFocation-substance”).  Pity  the  poor  German  youngsters  taking  their 
first  chemistry  courses  and  wondering  why  WasserstoflF  should  be  sym- 
bolized as  H,  SauerstoflP  as  O and  StickstoflF  as  N.  For,  of  course,  the 
Germans  use  the  international  symbols  as  all  other  nations  do. 

To  professional  chemists,  these  anomalies  oflFer  no  problem.  The 
symbols  become  second  nature,  take  my  word  for  it,  and  “Na”  becomes 
“sodium”  so  firmly  that  a chemist  would  face  the  symbol  “So”  in  com- 
plete confusion  and  find  himself  unable  to  imagine  what  element  that 
could  possibly  represent. 

To  the  beginner,  though,  the  Na/sodium  relationship  is  a puzzle, 
and  even  less  peculiar  symbols  aren't  clear.  For  instance,  is  Cl  chlorine 
or  calcium,  is  Ca  calcium  or  californium,  is  Th  thorium,  thulium,  or 
thallium,  is  Ni  nickel  or  nitrogen,  is  As  arsenic  or  astatine,  is  Ir  iron  or 
iridium  and  so  on. 

If  such  a beginner  is  presented  with  a periodic  table  of  the  elements, 
he  has  to  run  up  and  down  it  in  a hit-and-miss  way  seeking  for  the 
symbol  whose  element  he  is  trying  to  identify.  If  he  has  an  alphabetic 
listing  of  the  elements,  that  makes  things  a little  easier,  for  the  symbols 
are  then  roughly  (but  not  exactly)  in  alphabetic  order.  There  still  has 
to  be  some  hunting. 

What  the  first-year  chemistry  student  really  needs  is  an  alphabetical 
listing  of  symbols  and  such  a listing  I have  never  seen  in  all  my  years 
in  chemistry.  I will  therefore  take  the  opportunity  of  presenting  one 
here;  a table  I honestly  believe  to  be  imique — and  useful! 

Table  3 — An  Alphabetical  Listing  of  the  Chemical 
Symbols  of  the  Elements 

Chemical 

Symbol  Element 

Ac 
Ag 
A1 


Actinium 

Silver  (Argentum) 

Aluminum 


92 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Table  3 — An  Alphabetical  Listing  of  the  Chemical 
(cont.)  Symbols  of  the  Elements 

Chemical 

Symbol  Element 


Am 

Americium 

Ar 

Argon 

As 

Arsenic 

At 

Astatine 

Au 

Gold  (Aurum) 

B 

Boron 

Ba 

Barium 

Be 

Beryllium 

Bi 

Bismuth 

Bk 

Berkelium 

Br 

Bromine 

C 

Carbon 

Ca 

Calcium 

Cd 

Cadmium 

Ce 

Cerium 

Cf 

Californium 

Cl 

Chlorine 

Cm 

Curium 

Co 

Cobalt 

Cr 

Chromium 

Cs 

Cesium 

Cu 

Copper  (Cuprum) 

Dy 

Dysprosium 

Er 

Erbium 

Es 

Einsteinium 

Eu 

Europium 

F 

Fluorine 

Fe 

Iron  (Ferrum) 

Fm 

Fermium 

Fr 

Francium 

Ga 

Gallium 

Gd 

Gadolinium 

Ge 

Germanium 

H 

Hydrogen 

He 

Helium 

Hf 

Flafnium 

THE  SYMBOL-MINDED  CHEMIST 


93 


Table  3 — Ah  Alphabetical  Listing  of  the  Chemical 
CconU.')  Symbols  of  the  Elements 


Chemical 

Symbol 

Element 

Hg 

Mercury  (Hydrargyrum) 

Ho 

Holmium 

I 

Iodine 

In 

Indium 

Ir 

Iridium 

K 

Potassium  (Kalium) 

Kr 

Krypton 

La 

Lanthanum 

Li 

Lithium 

Lu 

Lutetium 

Lw 

Lawrencium 

Md 

Mendelevium 

Mg 

Magnesium 

Mn 

Manganese 

Mo 

Molybdenum 

N 

Nitrogen 

Na 

Sodium  (Natrium) 

Nb 

Niobium 

Nd 

Neodymium 

Ne 

Neon 

Ni 

Nickel 

No 

Nobehum 

Np 

Neptunium 

0 

Oxygen 

Os 

Osmium 

P 

Phosphorus 

Pa 

Protactinium 

Pb 

Lead  (Plumbum) 

Pd 

Palladium 

Pm 

Promethium 

Po 

Polonium 

Pr 

Praseodymium 

Pt 

Platinum 

Pu 

Plutonium 

Ra 

Radium 

94 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


Table  3 — An  Alphabetical  Listing  of  the  Chemical 
Ccont,^  Symbols  of  the  Elements 


Chemical 

Symbol 

Element 

Rb 

Rubidium 

Re 

Rhenium 

Rh 

Rhodium 

Rn 

Radon 

Ru 

Ruthenium 

S 

Sulfur 

Sb 

Antimony  (Stibium) 

Sc 

Scandium 

Se 

Selenium 

Si 

Silicon 

Sm 

Samarium 

Sn 

Tin  (Stannum) 

Sr 

Strontium 

Ta 

Tantalum 

Tb 

Terbium 

Tc 

Technetium 

Te 

Tellurium 

Th 

Thorium 

Ti 

Titanium 

T1 

Thallium 

Tm 

Thulium 

U 

Uranium 

V 

Vanadium 

w 

Tungsten  (Wolfram) 

Xe 

Xenon 

Y 

Yttrium 

Yb 

Ytterbium 

Zn 

Zinc 

Zt 

Zirconium 

Some  final  notes.  The  element,  niobium,  is  known  quite  commonly 
as  “columbium,”  particularly  in  the  United  States.  The  element  under 
that  alias  has  the  symbol  Cb.  Nobelium,  on  the  other  hand,  has  no  offi- 
cial name.  The  initial  discoverers,  who  gave  it  its  name,  described  an 
experiment  that  couldn't  be  repeated.  The  element  was  discovered  later 
by  another  type  of  experiment  that  could  be  repeated.  The  second  dis- 


THE  SYMBOL-MINDED  CHEMIST 


95 


coverers  could,  if  they  chose,  give  the  element  another  name,  but  so  far 
they  haven’t  chosen. 

Finally,  tlie  Soviet  chemists  have  not  yet  named  element  104,  but 
there  are  rumors  that  they  may  name  it  in  honor  of  Igor  Vasilevich 
Kurchatov,  who  died  in  1960.  He  had  led  the  Soviet  team  that  devel- 
oped nuclear  bombs  after  World  War  II.  If  so,  element  104  will  prob- 
ably be  called  “kurchatovium”  and  its  symbol  will  probably  be  Kc. 


Handsome^  Sturdy 

VOLUME  FILES 

for  Your  Copies  of 

FANTASY  AND 
SCIENCE  FICTION 


Each  Volume  File  will  keep 
12  copies  of  FANTASY  & 
SCIENCE  FICTION  clean,  orderly,  and  readily  accessible.  Sturdily  built, 
the  files  are  covered  with  a rich  black  and  red  washable  leatherette,  and  the 
lettering  is  in  1 6-carat  gold  leaf. 

Reasonably  priced  at  $2.50  each,  3 for  $7.00,  or  6 for  $13.00,  they  are 
shipped  fiillv  preoaid  on  a monev  back  basis  if  not  satisfactory.  Order 
direa  from:  JESSE  JONES  BOX  CORPORATION 

Dept,  F&SF  P.O.  Box  5120  Philadelphia  41,  Pa. 


About  the^  ahem^  cover  • . . 

Though  the  Franco-American  relationship  seems  to  have  be- 
come a bit  strained  of  late,  the  error  on  our  cover  is  purely  unin- 
tentional. Our  apologies  to  the  original  designer  of  the  grand  old 
lady,  M.  Bartholdi,  and  to  the  cover  artist,  Howard  Purcell.  Mr. 
Purcell  painted  the  statue  correctly,  but  it  was  flopped  in  printing 
for  mechanical  reasons.  This  resulted  in  depicting  the  left  arm  as 
uplifted,  rather  than  the  right.  Again,  sorry. 


Cannon  or,  more  precisely,  bombards  have  an  exciting  and  colorful 
history,  going  back  to  the  13th  Century  in  China.  ( Chinese  records 
called  them  ""the  heaven-shaking  thunder  bombs.'')  That  there 
have  been  few  if  any  SF  stories  based  on  cannon-lore  is  perhaps 
no  great  surprise;  that  when  one  came  along  it  would  be  from  the 
imaginative  and  far-ranging  pen  of  Avram  Davidson  should  be  not 
much  greater  a surpiise.  Here  then,  with  all  the  sweep  and  thunder 
you  might  expect  ( along  with  more  than  a bit  of  humor;  Mr.  David- 
son's wit  is  not  easily  muzzled)  is  the  story  of  that  gigantic  engine 
of  destruction  . . . 


BUMBERB003M 


by  Avram  Davidson 


Along  the  narrow  road, 
marked  a few  times  with  cairns  of 
whitewashed  stones,  a young  man 
came  by  with  a careful  look  and  a 
deliberate  gait  and  a something  in 
his  budget  which  went  drip-a-drip 
red.  The  land  showed  gardens  and 
fenced  fields  and  flowering  fruit 
trees.  The  bleating  of  sheep 
sounded  faintly.  The  young  man’s 
somewhat  large  mouth  became 
somewhat  smaller  as  he  reflected 
how  well  such  a land  might  yield 
. . . and  as  he  wondered  who 
might  hold  the  yield  of  it. 

Around  the  road’s  bend  he  came 
upon  a small  house  of  wood  with 
an  old  man  peering  from  the  door 


with  weepy  eyes  that  gave  a sud- 
den start  on  seeing  who  it  was 
whose  feet-sounds  on  the  road  had 
brought  him  from  his  fusty  bed. 
And  his  scrannel  legs  shook. 

‘‘Fortune  favor  you,  senior,”  the 
young  man  said,  showing  his  emp- 
ty palms.  “I  do  but  seek  a chance 
and  place  to  build  a fire  to  broil  the 
pair  of  leverets  which  fortune  has 
sent  my  way  for  breakfast.” 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  and 
stubble  beard.  “Leverets,  my 
young,  should  not  be  seared  on  a 
naked  fire.  Leverets  should  be 
stewed  gently  in  a proper  pot  with 
carrots,  onions,  and  a leek  and  a 
leaf  of  laurel,  to  say  the  least.” 


96 


BUMBERBOOM 


97 


With  a sigh  and  a smile  and  a 
shrug,  the  young  man  said,  “You 
speak  as  much  to  the  wit  as  would 
my  own  father,  who  (I  will  con- 
ceal nothing)  is  High  Man  to  the 
Hereditor  of  Land  Qanaras,  a land 
not  totally  without  Fortune  s fa- 
vor, thou^  not  the  puissant  realm 
it  was  before  the  Great  Gene  Shift 
Woe! — and  my  own  name,  it  is 
Mallian,  son  Hazelip.’' 

The  old  man  nodded  and  hob- 
bled his  throat.  “This  place,  to 
which  I make  you  free,  though 
poor  in  all  but  such  mere  things 
as  pot  and  fire  and  garden  herbs — 
this  place,  I say,  is  mine.  Ronan, 
it  is  called,  and  I am  by  salutary 
custom  called  only  'Ronan’s.'  To 
be  sure,  I have  another  name,  but 
in  view  of  my  age  and  ill  health 
you  will  excuse  my  not  pronounc- 
ing it,  lest  some  ill-disposed  per- 
son overhear  and  use  the  knowl- 
edge to  work  a malevolence  upon 
me  . . . Yonder  is  the  well  at 
which  you  may  fill  the  pot.  So.  So. 
And  who  can  be  ignorant — ahem- 
hum-hem — of  the  past  and  present 
fame  of  Land  Qanaras,  that  diligent 
and  canny  country  in  which 
doubtless  flourishes  a mastery  of 
medicine  of  geography,  medicine 
of  art  and  craft,  and  medicine  of 
magic  as  well  as  other  forms  of 
healing;  who?  Enough,  enough. 
Water,  my  young.  The  leverets  are 
already  dead  and  need  not  be 
drowned,*' 

The  stew  of  young  hares  was 
sweet  and  savory,  and  Ronan's  put 


his  crusts  to  soak  in  the  juice,  re- 
marking that  they  would  do  him 
weU  for  his  noonmeal.  “Ah  ahah!” 
he  said,  with  a pleasurable  eructa- 
tion. “How  much  better  are  hares 
in  the  pot  with  carrots  than  in  the 
garden  with  them!  And  what 
brings  you  here,  my  young,"  he 
sought  for  a fragment  of  flesh 
caught  by  a rotting  tush,  “to  the 
small  enclave  which  is  this  Sec- 
tion, not  properly  termable  a 
Land,  and  under  the  beneficent 
protection  of  Themselves,  the 
Kings  of  the  Dwerfs;  what?  eh? 
um  ahum  , . He  rolled  his 
rufous  and  watery  eyes  swiftly  to 
his  guest,  then  ostentatiously 
away. 

Mallian  gave  a start,  and  his 
hand  twitched  towards  his  sling 
and  pouch,  none  of  which  totally 
escaped  rheumy  old  Ronan’s,  for 
all  his  silly  miming.  “I  should 
have  known!"  Mallian  growled, 
bringing  his  thick  brown  brows  to- 
gether in  a scowl.  “Those  cairns  of 
whited  stones  . • • It  is  a Bandy 
sign,  isn't  it?" 

Now  how  the  old  senior  rolled 
his  watery  eyes  up  and  down  and 
shook  his  head!  **We  make  no  use 
of  that  pejorative  expression,  my 
young!  We  do  not  call  Them 
'Bandies,'  No!  We  call  Them,  the 
Kings  of  the  Dwerfs,  so.”  He 
winked,  pouching  up  one  cheek, 
squeezing  out  a tear.  “And  we  are 
grateful  for  Their  benevolences, 
yes  we  are."  He  drew  down  the 
comers  of  his  cavernous  and 


98 

hound-lip  mouth  in  a mocking 
expression.  *'Let  the  Dwerfs  hu- 
morously call  us  ‘StickpinsM  But 
— ‘Bandy’?  Hem!  Hem!  No  sir, 
that  word  is  not  to  be  used.”  And 
he  rambled  on  and  on  about  the 
Dwerfymen  and  his  loyalty,  mean- 
while drawing  his  face  into  all 
sorts  of  mimes  and  mows  which 
mocked  of  his  words,  when  there 
came  in  from  the  distance  a con- 
fused noise,  at  which  he  fell  silent 
and  harkened,  his  mouth  drooping 
open  and  nasty. 

It  was  not  until  they  were  out- 
side in  the  clear  day  that  they 
could  hear  the  noise  resolve  into  a 
shouting  or  a howling  and  a con- 
tinuous rumbling  and  rattling. 
Old  Ronan’s  began  to  shake  and 
mumble,  keeping  very  close  to  his 
visitor,  as  though  having  observed 
again  that  this  one  had  large  hands 
and  shoulders  and  was  young  and 
seemingly  strong.  “Fortune  forfend 
that  there  should  be  foreign  troops 
in  the  Section,”  he  quavered.  “An 
outrage  not  to  be  born,  do  I not 
pay  my  tax  and  levy,  for  all  that 
I’m  a Stickpin?  Go  up  a bit,  my 
young,  on  that  hill  where  I point, 
and  see  what  is  the  cause  and 
source  of  all  this  unseemly  riot — 
not  exposing  yourself  unduely,  but 
taking  pains  to  spy  out  every- 
thing.” 

So  up  Mallian  went,  spiraling 
along  the  hiU  through  the  fragrant 
acacias  and  the  stinking  reptilian 
sumacs,  and  so  to  the  top,  where, 
through  the  coppice  peering,  he 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

could  see  all  these  good  fenced  fat 
lands  and  the  deep  wide  grass- 
lands. 

But  more  immediately  below 
and  along  the  road  he  saw  a most 
unprecedented  sight,  stood  open- 
mouthed  and  tugged  the  coarse 
bottoms  of  his  bifurcated  beard, 
grunting  in  astonishment.  He 
turned  and,  through  cupped 
hands,  called  once,  '‘Come  up — /” 
and  turned  again  to  watch  further, 
paying  no  wit  to  the  querelous  pip- 
ings and  pantings  of  the  ancient. 

Up  from  around  the  concealing 
curve  of  another  hill  and  along 
what  Mallian  conceived  must  be 
the  famed  Broad  Road  which  led 
to  and  through  the  whole  length  of 
the  Erst  Marshes  came  a procession 
in  some  ways  reminiscent  of  pil- 
grim throngs  or  decimated  tribes 
fleeing  famine  or  pestilence  or 
plunder — men  and  women  and 
children  clad  in  rags  when  clad  at 
all,  some  few  afree  afoot,  some 
fewer  riding,  but  most  of  them  at- 
tached in  one  way  or  other  to  the 
thing  ridden:  a thing,  immense, 
of  great  length,  tubular,  rather 
like  the  most  gigantic  blow-gun 
the  most  inflamed  imagination 
might  conceive  of,  trundling  and 
rumbling  along  on  enormous  and 
metal-shod  wheels,  the  spokes  and 
rims  as  thick  as  a man — some  of 
them  in  harness  to  which  they  bent 
so  low  that  they  were  horizontal, 
squatting  as  though  for  greater 
traction — some  bowing  as  though 
at  huge  oars,  pushing  against 


BUMBERBOOM 


99 


beams  thrust  through  the  spokes — 
some  straining  their  arms  against 
the  rims  of  the  wheels  or  against 
the  body  or  butt  of  the  monstrous 
engine — others  pushing  with 
tlieir  backs — 

This  tremendous  contrivance 
rocked  and  rumbled  and  shook  and 
rolled  on,  and  all  the  while  its  at- 
tendance roared  and  shouted  and 
howled,  and  the  wind  shifted  and 
flung  the  stink  of  them  into  Mal- 
lians  face.  “In  Fortune’s  name, 
what  is  it?”  he  demanded  of  old 
Ronan’s,  extending  an  arm  to  pull 
him  up.  The  senior  looked  and 
shrieked  and  moaned  and  pressed 
his  cheeks  with  his  palms. 

'What  is  it?**  cried  Mallian, 
shaking  him. 

Ronan’s  threw  out  his  arms. 
“Juggernaut!”  he  screamed.  *7^8' 
gernaut!  Bumberboom!” 

All  that  frightened  old  Ronan's 
had  to  do — indeed,  was  able  to  do 
— was  skitter  back  to  his  little 
house  and  release  the  pigeon 
whose  arrival  in  the  proper  belled 
cage  of  its  home  dove-cote  would 
not  only  inform  the  local  confed- 
erate Dwerf  King  that  something 
w as  wrong  in  his  realm  but  would 
inform  him  a fairly  close  approxi- 
mation of  where.  Yet  the  old  man 
refused  utterly  to  perform  this 
small  task  by  himself,  would  not 
unhand  Mallian  at  all,  and  pulled 
along  with  him  until  they  were 
back  at  the  senior  s place  and  the 
bird  released. 

“Remain,  remain  with  me,  my 


young,”  he  pleaded,  loose  tears 
coursing  down  his  twitching  face. 
“At  least  until  the  Sectional  Con- 
stabulary shall  have  arrived  and 
set  things  aright.” 

But  the  last  thing  which  Mal- 
lian wanted  was  an  interview  with 
a Bandy  border-guardsman.  He 
arose  and  shook  his  head. 

“Stay,  stay,  do.  I have  smoked 
pullets  and  both  black  beer  and 
white,  strained  comb-honey,  dried 
fruits,”  he  began  to  enumerate  the 
attractions  of  abiding,  but  was  in- 
terrupted in  a way  he  had  not  fan- 
cied to  be. 

A smile  full  of  teeth  parted 
Malhan’s  light  brown  beard. 
“Good,  good.  Not  bad  for  one  of 
your  priorly  announced  poverty; 
well  may  one  envy  the  rich  of  this 
Section.  Now — as  a reward  for 
my  accompanying  you  back  here, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  work  of  top- 
ping that  mountainous  hill  to  ob- 
tain intelligence  for  you — let  you 
replenish,  and  quickly!  my  budget 
here  with  as  many  such  smokelings 
as  will  fit.  Then  you  may  fill  the 
chinks  and  interstices  with  the 
aforesaid  dried  fruits.  No,  no,  an- 
other word  not.  I am  too  modest 
to  appreciate  the  compliments  you 
would  pay  me  by  a continued  soh- 
citation  of  my  presence.  One  jug 
of  black  beer  I may  be  persuaded 
to  take;  the  honey  I must  forego 
until  another  occasion.  So. 

“Fortune  favor  you,  senior  Ro- 
nan’s.  One  further  deed  we  may  do 
each  other.  You  will  not  need  to 


100 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


inform  your  Dwerfymen  of  my 
presence  or  passage;  I,  in  turn, 
will  not  need  to  inform  them — 
unless  I am  stopped  by  them,  of 
course — hem!  hem! — of  your 
treasonous  grimaces  and  repeti- 
tions of  the  fell  name  of  Bandy. 
Sun  shine  upon  you,  and  forfend 
the  shadow  of  the  Juggernaut 
Bumberboom!’* 

Thus,  laughing  loudly,  he  left 
the  ancient  as  he  had  first  found 
him,  weeping  and  alarmed,  and 
went  on  his  way.  Indeed,  he  had 
fully  retraced  his  way  to  the  top 
of  the  hill  before  he  realized  that 
he  had  not  asked  the  question.  He 
scowled  and  fingered  his  long 
moustaches,  deliberating  a return, 
but  finally  decided  against  it. 
**Such  an  old  queery  man  would 
know  no  medicine  of  any  sort,''  he 
assured  himself.  *Tet  alone  wit  of 
this  most  vital  matter.  But  I will 
keep  in  mind  his  w'ords  about  the 
vaporous  device  which  pumps  and 
drains  the  Erst  Marshes,  for — if, 
indeed,  it  is  not  a mere  vapor  of 
the  senior  himself  (and  how  he 
cozened  me  out  of  half  a hare; 
shame!) — for  such  medicine  may 
well  imply  the  presence  of  more. 
Hem,  hem,  we  will  see." 

The  road  was  riddled  and  grid- 
died  with  great  ruts  from  the  gi- 
gantic gunwheels.  Amidst  clots  of 
filth  lay  a man  who  had  unjudi- 
ciously  interposed  his  neck  be- 
tween wheel  and  road,  and  a child 
who  mewed  and  yippered  at  Mal- 
lian  but  made  no  attempt  to  walk. 


Man  and  child,  quick  and  dead, 
looked  as  like  as  the  spit  of  their 
mouths — blond  hair  so  pale  as  to 
be  almost  as  white  as  that  of  the 
People  of  the  Moon — equally  pale, 
but  pale,  pale  blue  of  small,  small 
eyes — a sort  of  squinting  blank- 
ness of  expression — and  slack,  sil- 
ly mouths.  Idiot  father  and  idiot 
son,  w^as  Mallian's  impression. 
And  he  wondered  how  they  had 
come  to  be  w^ith  the  gun  crew.  And 
he  went  on. 

Warm  w^as  the  day  and  the  beer 
soon  went  down  swift.  Mallian 
w^as  about  to  hoist  the  jug  for  the 
last  time  when  he  heard  a too-well- 
remembered  thudding  on  the  road 
and  looked,  quickly,  from  one  to 
another  side  for  cover.  But  the  land 
was  flat  for  many  arms'  lengths  on 
either  side  of  the  road.  '‘Curse!"  he 
muttered  and  reached  with  a sigh 
for  sling  and  stones,  w^hen  he  be- 
thought that  he  might  hide — did 
he  trot  fast — behind  a certain  ma- 
ple tree. 

Mallian  trotted,  saw  the  ditch 
behind  the  tree,  tumbled  into  it 
cod  over  cap,  and  had  just  time  to 
right  himself  and  peer  out  as  the 
thudthiid’thiidthiid  of  hooves  came 
by,  and  he  saw  the  mounts. 

There  w^ere  t^vo  of  them,  fat  and 
hairy  barrel-bodied  Bandy  ponies 
— a description  which  w^ould  as 
well  have  fit  the  two  squat  Dw^erfy- 
men  riders  whose  short  legs  fit  the 
curves  of  their  mounts'  sides  as 
though  steamed  and  bent  thereto. 
Large  heads,  broad  backs,  beards 


BUMBERBOOM 


101 


which  would  reach  to  their  pro- 
truding navels  if  not  whipped 
away  by  wind,  faces  neither  grim 
nor  alarmed  but  intent  and  de- 
termined, the  Bandies  came  at  the 
gallop.  The  scabbards  of  their 
slashers  were  on  their  backs,  with- 
in quick  reach  of  their  hands.  They 
looked  to  neither  side  nor  did  they 
speak;  in  a moment  more  they 
were  gone. 

But  the  crossroads,  when  he 
came  to  them,  swarmed  with  peo- 
ple. 

‘They  have  taken  everything, 
everything  eatable  in  my  house!” 
a woman  wailed,  gesturing  to  the 
empty  shelves  revealed  by  the 
open  doors. 

But  another  cried,  "Take'?  I 
did  not  wait  for  them  to  take — 
I gave  them  all  there  was  to  eat 
in  mine!” 

"Wisely  done,  wisely  done!”  a 
man  agreed,  wiping  from  his  red 
face  a sweat  which  came  from  agi- 
tation rather  than  heat.  "Food  can 
always  be  purchased,  food  is  even 
now  growing  and  grazing — food, 
in  short,  can  be  replaced.  But  how 
can  one  replace  that  destroyed  by 
the  destruction  sure  to  be  caused  if 
the  Crew  of  Bumberboom  were  to 
fire  even  one  shot  from  their  enor- 
mous cannon?  Surely  it  would 
shatter  bodies  and  houses  alike!” 

And  a fourth  person,  by  his  look 
and  manner  probably  someone  of 
some  stature  in  the  community, 
said  in  a sober  tone  of  voice  as  he 


patted  the  middle  front  of  his  well- 
filled  tunic,  "All  this  is  very  true, 
but  since  the  community  and 
property  of  the  Section  as  a whole 
is  threatened,  it  is  not  a problem 
to  be  entirely  dealt  with  by  indi- 
viduals. Fortunately,  as  we  have 
seen,  our  protectors  have  been 
alerted.  Two  of  their  constables 
have  already  passed  by  and,  by 
now,  are  doubtless  making  ar- 
rangements with  the  cannon's 
Crew.  It  is  equally  fortunate,”  he 
pointed  out,  looking  around  and 
gathering  in  the  approval  of  the 
crowd,  "that  the  demands  of  the 
Crew  of  Bumberboom  are  so  mod- 
est ..  . that  it  is  only  food  they 
seek  and  not  women  or  power  or 
dominion.  Eh  ahem?  For  who 
could  resist  in  the  face  of  that  tre- 
mendous and  destructive  engine!” 

Someone  else  muttered  that  it 
might  be  better  for  the  Crew  if 
their  needs  were  not  limited  to 
food  alone  but  included  water, 
soap,  and  a change  of  clothing. 
There  wxre  scattered  laughs  at 
this.  The  magnate,  however, 
pursed  his  lips  and  drew  liis  face 
into  lines  of  disproval.  "That  is  as 
it  may  be,”  he  said,  severely.  "The 
educated  person  knows  that  cus- 
toms differ  among  different  peo- 
ple, and  it  is  not  for  us  to  risk  of- 
fending the  Crew  of  Bumberboom 
by  making  gauche  comments  on 
such  matters.  For  my  part,  so  long 
as  they  withdraw  satisfied  from  the 
Section,  I care  not  if  they  ever  or 
never  bathe  again,  eh  ahem?” 


102 

Clearly  he  spoke  for  the  major- 
ity and  the  majority  slowly  began 
to  disperse  to  go  about  their  other 
business,  confident  that  the  Dwerf 
agents  would  deal  with  the  matter 
which  had  so  excited  and  upset 
them.  Mallian  approached  the 
magnate  and  saluted  him,  the  lat- 
ter returning  the  gesture  with  an 
air  of  mildly  surprised  condescen- 
sion. ''\\1ience  and  whither, 
strange  my  young?”  he  enquired. 
*'And  forwhy?” 

Mai  sighed.  “Ah,  senior,  your 
question  not  only  sums  up  the  mat- 
ter, it  places  a finger  upon  the  sore 
center  of  it.  The  whence  is  easily 
ansv>'cred:  Land  Oanaras,  a Land 
afflicted  and  perplexed.  As  to 
whither,  I do  not  yet  know,  and 
can  say  only  that  I am  wandering 
in  search  of  a medicine  which  will 
supply  an  answer.  Which  last,  I 
perceive  you  have  already  realized, 
comprises  the  why.  But  before  I 
speak  of  that  I would  enquire  of 
you  concerning  a current  matter. 
Sympathize  with  my  ignorance 
and  inform  me  as  to  what  is  Buin- 
berboom,  or  Juggernaut,  as  I have 
heard  it  also  denominated,  and 
who  its  Crew  may  be.” 

The  magnate's  face  had  shown 
a conflict  between  flattery  at  Mai's 
compliments  and  unease  at  the 
prospect  of  being  involved  in  his 
problems.  But  the  gathering 
round  of  a few  gaping  loungers 
eager  for  free  diversion  decided  his 
mind.  “Important  matters,”  he 
said,  importantly,  holding  up  his 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

chin  so  that  his  jowls  withdraw, 
“are  not  to  be  discussed  where  ev- 
ery lack-work  may  gawp  and  crane 
at  an  inoffensive  visitor.  Come 
along  with  me,  my  young,  and  I 
will  not  scruple  to  take  time  away 
from  my  many  important  affairs 
and  inform  you.” 

And,  as  they  walked  slowly 
through  the  crossroads  hamlet,  he 
related  to  him  that  Bumberboom 
was  an  engine  or  contrivance  of 
both  great  size  and  potency,  found- 
ed upon  the  principles  of  a medi- 
cine known  only  to  its  Crew.  It 
had  the  capacity  of  casting  great 
shots  over  great  distances  accom- 
panied (so  it  was  said),  by  hide- 
ous and  deadly  fires  and  deadly 
and  hideous  noises.  Whence  it  had 
been  derived,  when  and  by  whom 
made,  only  the  Crew  itself  could 
say,  and  they — perhaps  naturally 
enough — would  not.  “Suffice  it 
that  they  have  the  secret  of  this 
medicine  and  that  they  use  it  to  go 
whither  they  will,  depending  for 
sustenance  upon  the  inevitable  de- 
sire of  those  among  whom  they 
wander  that  they  immediately 
wander  elsewhere  without  giv- 
ing an  exhibition  of  their  powers, 
which  would  prove  painful  in  the 
extreme.  Thus,  my  young,  is  your 
question  answered. 

“As  for  your  problems,  hem  hem, 
I greatly  regret  that  my  civic  and 
commercial  duties  do  not  permit 
me  to  indulge  in  hearing  them.  I 
must  content  myself  reluctantly 
with  saying  that  no  Land  under 


BUMBERBOOM 


103 


the  beneficent  protection  of  the 
Kings  of  the  Dwerfs  can  be  either 
afflicted  or  perplexed,  and  on  this 
note  I,  alas,  must  take  my  leave. 
Fortune  favor  you!” 

He  waddled  off  briskly  towards 
a showy  dwelling-place  from 
which  came  kitchen  smells  indica- 
tive that  at  least  one  household  had 
left  the  supply  of  food  to  the  Crew 
of  Bumberboom  for  the  governing 
powers  to  deal  with. 

''Sun  shine  upon  you,”  Mai  said, 
somewhat  glumly,  for  he  had 
learned  very  little  from  the  man 
which  he  had  not  already  been 
able  to  deduce  by  himself.  But  as 
he  reflected  on  the  possible  uses  of 
Bumberboom  it  occurred  to  him 
that  therein  it  was  conceivable  lay 
an  answer  to  his  quest  and  ques- 
tion, though  not  in  any  way  which 
he  had  previously  considered. 

The  hamlet  fell  away  behind 
him,  and  as  he  continued  along  the 
famed  Broad  Road  he  saw  upon  its 
dusty  surface  the  hoofprints  of  the 
Dwerfish  ponies,  and  the  grooves 
made  by  the  great  wheels  of  Bum- 
berboom. Slowly  he  began  to  smile, 
and  then  he  quickened  his  steps 
and  strode  briskly  along. 

The  situation  at  the  border  was 
perhaps  brittle  rather  than  tense; 
so  occupied  with  their  affairs  were 
those  gathered  there  that  they  did 
not  observe  Mallian  approaching. 
He  heard  a hoarse  babble  of  voices 
from  farther  away  and  saw  the  huge 
muzzle  of  Bumberboom  lifted  up 
from  behind  a rise  of  ground.  The 


whitewashed  stone  cairns  marking 
the  dominion  of  the  Dwerfs  stood 
on  each  side  of  the  road,  and  be- 
yond them  on  each  side  of  the  road 
was  another  symbol  consisting  of 
two  long  wooden  beams  painted 
red.  Their  ends  were  planted  in 
the  ground  and  they  inclined  to- 
wards each  other  until  for  a short 
space  they  crisscrossed.  The  sight 
of  the  two  Dwerfs  brought  him  to 
pause  a moment  and  to  consider 
concealment  . . . but  they  were 
on  foot,  and  their  mounts  were 
tethered  ofiF  at  a distance,  and 
moreover  their  territory  clearly 
came  to  an  end  here,  although  he 
was  not  familiar  with  what  new 
territory  might  be  symbolized  by 
the  red  beams. 

Neither  had  he  before  ever  seen 
men  like  those  who  stood  convers- 
ing with  the  Bandies.  They  wore 
not  the  breeches,  shirt  and  tunic  so 
common  elsewhere,  but  closefit- 
ting upper  garments  extending  as 
a sort  of  hood  or  cap  closely  over 
the  scalp  and  to  which  a sort  of 
curious  simulated  ears  were  at- 
tached. And  tights  of  cloth  they 
wore  about  their  loins.  These  gar- 
ments had  not  the  rough  look  of 
wool  nor  (it  suddenly  seemed)  the 
dull  look  of  linen,  but  they  had  a 
mightily  attractive  smoothness  and 
sheen  and  glow,  and  they  rippled 
when  even  a muscle  was  moved. 

"Oh,  we  are  so  infinitely  obliged 
to  the  Kings  of  the  Dwerfs,”  one 
was  saying,  in  a tone  which 
seemed  to  indicate  very  little  sense 


104 

of  true  obligation.  Rays  of  sunlight 
slanted  through  the  bowering 
branches  of  the  trees  and  picked 
out  the  emblematics  embroidered 
upon  the  red  tunics  of  the  Dwerfy- 
men.  **We  are  so  obliged  to  them — 
through  their  constables  of  course 
— ” he  bowed  and  put  more  expres- 
sion into  the  salute  than  was  in 
his  face,  “for  having  sent  us  this 
number  of  greatly  desirable  guests. 
And  such  guests  as  they  are,  too!” 

And  a second  said,  with  a dull 
and  lowering  look,  “Our  apprecia- 
tion will  be  conveyed  from  our 
Masters  to  yours,  very  shortly,  have 
no  fears.’* 

One  of  the  Dwerfs  said  with  a 
shrug,  “They  would  away,  as  we 
have  told  you,  and  who  can  hold 
what  will  away?  Furthermore, 
who  can  argue  with  Bumberboom?” 

The  other  Dwerf,  hearing  or 
perhaps  subtly  feeling  the  ap- 
proach of  some  one  behind, 
glanced  back  and  saw  Mai  coming. 
He  took  his  comrade’s  arm  and 
turned  him  around.  “Hold,  Raflin. 
Do  you  remember  that  report?” 

Raflin  puckered  his  caterpillar 
brows  and  nodded.  “I  do.  And  I do 
believe,  Gorlin,  that  this  is  one 
with  whom  we  would  speak.  Halt, 
fellow,  in  the  names  of  the  Kings!” 

But  Mai,  skipping  nimbly,  said, 
“It  is  a false  report,  to  begin  with, 
and  a case  of  erroneous  identifica- 
tion to  continue  with.  Furthermore, 
the  names  of  your  Kings  are  as 
nothing  to  me  for  I was  never  their 
subject,  and  lastly — 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

“Hold!  Hold!” 

“ — lastly,”  Mai  said,  lining  up 
beside  the  stranger-men,  “I  am  not 
at  the  present  moment  any  longer 
in  your  Section  or  your  Land  at  all, 
and  accordingly  I defy  you.  Bandy 
rogues  that  you  are!”  And  he  sprad- 
dled his  legs  in  contempt  at  them. 

The  Dwerfs  grunted  their  rage 
and  simultaneously  began  to  reach 
for  their  slashers  and  to  move  for- 
ward upon  their  crook  legs,  but  the 
guards  from  the  other  side  of  the 
border  took  several  paces  toward 
them  and  regarded  them  with  ex- 
treme disfavor.  They  stopped. 

“So  be  it,  then,”  said  Raflin, 
after  a moment.  “We  will  not  in- 
voke the  doctrine  of  close  pursuit. 
But  be  assured,  Stickpin,”  he  flung 
the  term  at  unflinching  Mallian, 
“and  be  assured,  you  other  Stick- 
pins, that  we  will  complain  upon 
you  for  harboring  a malignant,  an 
enemy,  a ruffian,  fugitive,  and  re- 
cusant, a rapiner  and  an  other- 
wise offender  against  our  Kings, 
their  Crowns  and  Staves;  and  we 
will  demand  and,  I do  not  doubt, 
will  obtain  his  return.” 

Mallian  bracked  his  tongue  and 
again  spraddled  his  legs. 

Said  one  of  the  other  guards, 
“Demand,  then.  It  may  be  you  will 
secure  his  return — and  with  him, 
too,  the  return  of  Bumberboom  and 
all  its  Crew.” 

TTie  Dwerfs  made  no  reply  to 
this  but  turned  and  proceeded  to 
their  ponies.  One  oY  them,  how- 
ever, whirled  around  and  flung  out 


BUMBERBOOM 


105 


his  hand  and  forefinger  at  MaL 
**As  for  you,  fellowP'  he  declared 
roundly,  ‘‘were  you  at  all  instruct- 
ed in  any  wise  of  medicine  of  his- 
tory, you  would  understand — you 
would  know — that  the  bodily  form 
of  the  Dwerfs  is  the  original  bodily 
form  of  all  mankind.  We  have  only 
pity  for  you  who  descend  out  of 
those  misshapen  sufferers  from  the 
Great  Gene  Shift.”  He  swung  him- 
self about  once  more  and  neither 
of  them  spoke  again.  The  two  stout 
ponies  went  trot-a-trot  down  the 
road,  dust  motes  rising  to  dance  in 
the  sunbeams. 

Mallian  turned  his  head  to  see 
the  stranger-men  regarding  him 
without  expression.  He  thrust  his 
hand  into  his  bosom  and  withdrew 
the  letter  of  statements  in  its 
pouch.  He  handed  it  out  ...  to 
the  air,  as  it  were,  for  none  reached 
to  take  it.  After  a moment  and  in 
some  perplexity  he  asked,  “Does 
none  desire  to  examine  the  well- 
phrased  let-pass  with  which  my 
natal  territory — or,  to  be  more  pre- 
cise, its  governance — has  supplied 
me?” 

With  a slight  yawn  one  of  them 
said,  and  he  shook  his  head,  “None 
of  whom  I know  . . . Such  cere- 
monies are  reserved  for  those  ar- 
rived on  official  purposes,  and  not 
for  mere  proletaries  or  profugi- 
tives.” 

Stung  by  such  belittling  indif- 
ference, Mallian  exclaimed  to  the 
effect  that  he  was  indeed  on  just 
such  purposes  arrived.  The  stran- 


gers smiled  at  him  a trifle  scorn- 
fully. “These  pretensions  are  at  the 
moment  and  under  the  circum- 
stances amusing,”  they  said,  “but 
they  will  not  do,  barbado;  a-no-no, 
they  will  not  do  at  all.  Those  ar- 
rived on  official  purposes  unto  this 
Land  of  Elver  State,  of  which  we 
of  the  corps  of  guards  are  both  the 
internal  and  the  external  defense, 
arrive  with  proper  pomp.  They,  for 
one  thing,  are  dressed  in  garments 
of  serrycloth,  as  indeed  are  we, 
ahem  hum.  For  another,  they 
ride  upon  smooth-haired  horses 
adorned  with  many  trappings  of 
broideries  and  burnishments,  and 
so  do  all  their  party — which,  by 
definition,  is  numerous.  And  for 
another  and  the  last,  though  this 
by  no  means  the  least,  they  come 
provided  with  a multitude  of  rich 
donatives  of  which  distribution  is 
made  to  the  members  of  the  corps 
of  guards.” 

Mallian  cast  down  his  eyes  and 
gnawed  upon  his  lips.  “Nonethe- 
less,” he  declared,  “I  have  been  is- 
sued with  this  letter  of  statements 
directing  all  to  let  me  pass,  and 
the  fact  of  your  having  made  no 
gesture  to  prevent  my  passage  at  all 
would  not  altogether  seem  to  justify 
my  failing  to  present  it.  And  inas- 
much as  you  desire  not  to  trouble  to 
read  it,  it  would  be  a pretty  cour- 
tesy on  my  part  to  read  it  to  you. 
I have  oftentimes  been  commend- 
ed for  my  reading  voice,  and  I 
doubt  not  but  that  you  gallants  of 
the  Elver  Guards  will  desire  to  do 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


lOo 

the  same,  and  furthermore,  the 
problem  set  down  herein,  which  is 
the  high  purpose  of  my  journey- 
ings,  may  so  move  you  as  to  search 
among  your  minds  to  see  if  per- 
adventure  you  know  of  a medicine 
which  may  shed  both  light  and 
hope  thereon.” 

And  he  read  them  the  let-pass, 
or  letter  of  statements,  as  he  had 
done  to  the  pseudomorphs,  and  to 
the  People  of  the  Moon. 

‘'Ah,  well,”  said  one  with  a 
sniffle  of  his  nose,  “interesting  and 
absorbing  as  the  beardy  one’s  prob- 
lem is,  and  while  I doubt  not  that 
the  medicines  of  our  Masters  con- 
tains an  answer  to  it — it  is  no 
more  than  the  speck  of  a fly  com- 
pared to  the  problem  lying  over  the 
rise  there.  Anent  which,  let  us 
move  and  consider,  for  an  action 
of  some  sort  will  assuredly  be  re- 
quired of  our  hands.” 

They  proceeded  upward  and 
then  paused,  considering,  Mai 
with  them.  There  had  evidently 
been  a house  of  some  sort  there  be- 
low, but  it  had  been  unstrategi- 
cally  situated  in  terms  of  the  at- 
tempts of  the  Crew  of  Bumberboom 
to  pass  with  their  weapon  along  the 
road  above  it.  It  had  gone  off  the 
road,  and  the  marks  of  its  going 
were  eaten  into  the  berm,  and  be- 
fore it  had  either  been  brought  to 
rest  or  come  to  rest  of  its  own 
accord,  it  had  thoroughly  crushed 
the  house — the  fragments  of 
which  were  being  now  unskillfully 
transformed  into  cook-fires.  The 


harnesses  hung  empty,  the  guide- 
ropes  lay  ignored  upon  the  ground. 
The  Crew  was  both  at  rest  and  at 
meat.  And,  it  became  at  once  ap- 
parent, at  other  occupations  as 
well. 

“Scandalous!”  exclaimed  Mal- 
lian.  “Shocking!” 

One  of  the  Elver  Guards 
shrugged.  “As  well  be  scandalized 
or  shocked  at  cats  and  dogs,”  he 
said. 

Mai  protested.  “But  dogs  and 
cats  are  not  human — ” 

The  upper  lip  of  the  Elver 
Guard  went  up  further.  “Are 
those}”  he  demanded. 

Not  overmuch  regarding  this  re- 
mark, Mai  allowed  his  mind  to 
run  still  more  over  a notion  which, 
in  seedling  form,  had  occurred  to 
him  before.  Cautiously,  tentative- 
ly, he  began  to  broach  the  matter. 
“I  have  been  in  some  measure  too 
overwhelmed  by  your  kindliness  in 
offering  me  refuge,”  he  explained, 
“from  those  hangmen  Dwerfs  to 
express  my  gratification  fully.  But 
»» 

“No  need,  no  need,”  the  Elver 
murmured,  scratching  his  armhole 
— then,  as  though  only  then  be- 
coming aware  of  what  he  was  do- 
ing, he  stepped  back  from  the 
berm  with  a curse  and  a scowl.  “A 
tetany  upon  those  wittol  swine! 
They  must  have  fleas  as  large  as 
mice — if  indeed  no  worse.  I am 
for  going  away  and  constructing  a 
steam-lodge  and  boiling  self  and 
habit.” 


BUMBERBOOM 


107 


“Do,  Naccanath,"'  murmured 
another  Elver.  “And  when  asked 
how  you  proceeded  to  rid  the  State 
of  this  lumbering  menace,  be  pre- 
pared to  answer,  ‘I  bathed  me.*  But 
for  praise  or  commendation,  do  not 
be  prepared.” 

The  guard  Naccanath  hesi- 
tated, muttered,  scratched. 

Mallian  moved  his  mouth 
against  the  sudden  fretful  silence. 
“But  now  that  I am  able  to  take 
two  consecutive  breaths  free  from 
fear  of  Bandymen  pursuit  and  am 
made  aware  not  only  of  my  safety 
and  refuge  but  of  the  wisdom  of 
those  whose — ** 

A fight  broke  out  among  the 
Grew  below,  but  was  soon  settled. 

An  Elver  said,  in  a faintly  dis- 
satisfied tone,  “Ah  ...  he  did 
but  club  him.  I had  thought  he 
might  well  eat  him;  it  would  sur- 
prise me  not  a wit.” 

And  another  said,  a peevish 
note  in  his  voice,  bruising  a blos- 
som under  his  nose  to  counteract 
the  noisome  taint  now  rising  from 
below,  “Why  need  they  eat  each 
other  when  all  the  world  rushes  to 
supply  them  with  far  less  gamy 
food?  In  fact,”  his  face  became  a 
sight  brighter,  “may  this  not  be  a 
possible  solution? — videlicet,  sim- 
ply to  supply  tliem  with  a steady 
ration  of  victual,  thus  depriving 
them  of  incentive  to  leave  their 
present  location.  Denizened  right 
here,  they  remain  under  supervi- 
sion and  do  no  further  damage  and 
post  no  further  threat.” 


Musing  a moment,  the  others 
then  shook  their  heads.  Another 
said,  “They  would  breed,  Durra- 
neth,  at  a rate  which  would  soon 
enough  make  their  maintenance 
a cost  not  to  be  considered.  Fur- 
ther, experience  has  shown  that 
nomads  do  not  easily  take  to  deni- 
zation.” 

They  sighed  and  sucked  their 
lips  and  their  unhappy  breaths 
caused  their  smooth  garments  to 
ripple  and  shimmer  in  a marvelous 
manner,  for  which  Mallian,  nev- 
ertheless, had  but  small  eyes. 

“ — whose  tolerance  has  un- 
doubtedly saved  my  life,’*  he  con- 
tinued resolutely — and  a shade 
more  loudly.  The  Elver  Guards 
now  turned  to  consider  him  and 
his  words.  “What  is  the  point  of 
your  narration,  profugitive?**  de- 
manded the  one  called  Durraneth, 
in  his  voice  a coolness  only  to  be 
expected  in  one  whose  own  pro- 
posal had  just  now  been  consid- 
ered and  dismissed.  Barely  had  he 
finished  asking  his  question  when 
a head  appeared  above  the  berm, 
its  countenance  vacant  and  filthy, 
and  looked  at  them  openmouthed 
as  they  stepped  backwards  with 
fastidious  precaution.  “Cappin?” 
it  enquired.  “Cappin  Mog?”  A 
bellow  from  below  diverted  it  so 
that  it  turned,  released  its  hold, 
slid  down  and  away  and  did  not 
return. 

“The  point  of  my  narration, 
gallant  Guards  Elver,  is  just  this: 
that  I would  ask  of  you  a consid- 


108 

eration  for  which  I oflEer  to  per- 
form a service,  thus  and  thus,  in- 
form me  kindly  where  I may 
inquire  of  your  Masters  a medicine 
to  solve  the  problems  of  my  own 
Land  Qanaras,  and  in  return  I will 
rid  you  and  all  the  Land  of  Elver 
State  forever  of  Bumberboom  and 
its  Crew/* 

The  green  shade  flashed  blue  as 
a jay  noisily  chased  another 
through  the  trees.  Narrowly  the 
guards  regarded  him.  Then  Nac- 
canath  said,  ‘'Seemingly  such  an 
agreement  would  be  of  benefit  to 
all  and  of  detriment  to  none.  Still, 
I am  moved  to  inquire — not 
from  suspicion,  fie  upon  such  a 
thought,  hem  hem,  but  out  of  mere 
curiosity  and  interest — how  do 
you  propose  to  do  this?** 

Mallian*s  fingers  stroked  the 
left  and  then  the  right  tip  of  his 
short  beard,  through  which  a slight 
smile  peeped  deprecatingly.  “To 
reveal  this  before  an  agreement  has 
been  reached  would  perhaps  be 
out  of  keeping  with  the  traditions 
of  negotiating.  I point  this  out, 
not  from  suspicion,  fie  upon  the 
thought,  hem  hem,  but  simply  be- 
cause I have  been  very  traditional- 
ly reared  and  do  not  desire  to  cast 
reflection  upon  my  upbringing  by 
departing  therefrom  even  in  tri- 
fles.** 

After  another  silence,  Durra- 
neth  said,  with  something  like  a 
frown,  “Would  it  be  untraditional 
for  you  to  indicate  by  which  route 
you  intend  for  yourself  and  them 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

to  depart,  and  your  destination  as 
weU?*' 

Mallian  said  it  would  not. 
Logic,  he  pointed  out,  would  indi- 
cate a departure  by  the  shortest 
route  (other  than  the  one  back  into 
the  near-lying  Section  of  the 
Dwerf  Kings*  dominions)  out  of 
Elver  State,  and  to  show  his  per- 
fect good  will  and  trust  in  the  mat- 
ter he  would  entreat  the  advice  of 
the  company  as  to  a good  route  to 
achieve  this  purpose — accom- 
panied, perhaps,  by  a map — and, 
as  for  his  destination,  well: 

“I  am  a hill  man  by  origin,  and 
lonely  therefore.  Nevertheless 
there  is  nought  of  the  hermit  in 
my  background  or  makeup;  I ad- 
mire also  the  proximity  of  fair 
lowlands  and  goodly  towns  to 
which  one  may  conveniently  de- 
scend to  purchase  merchandise 
with  the  modest  yield  of  the  hills. 
And  therefore — ** 

Durraneth  cleared  his  throat 
and  cast  a slant  glance  at  his  fel- 
lows. “And  therefore — inform  me 
if  I understand  you  arightly,  Mal- 
lian son  Hazelip — and  therefore 
you  desire  information  about  a 
place  lying  outside  of  Elver  State 
and  situated  upon  a hill  overlook- 
ing fair  lowlands  and  goodly  towns, 
or  perhaps  at  least  one  goodly  town. 
Is  it  so?** 

Mai  frankly  admitted  that  the 
conjecture  was  correct.  “At  least 
one  goodly  town,**  he  murmured, 
“although  two  or  even  three  would 
be  better.** 


BUMBERBOOM 


109 


The  guard-lodge  had  a stark 
neatness  about  it  which  Mallian, 
familiar  with  the  companionable 
disorder  of  Qanaras  and  the  opu- 
lent show  of  the  Dwerfs,  found  a 
bit  chilling.  There  were,  to  be 
sure,  many  contrivances  visible 
which  seemed  both  curious  and  in- 
teresting, as  well  as  an  entire  shelf 
bearing  nought  but  books,  which 
much  impressed  him.  “ Where  are 
much  books  is  much  medicine,' " 
he  quoted,  reverently. 

The  Elver  Guards  gave  but  a 
nod  or  two  at  this  and  began  to 
spread  a table  with  maps  and  to 
converse  in  low  tones  among  them- 
selves, paying  to  Mai’s  thought- 
fully-pointed-out  observation  that 
it  was  now  high  noon  and  meal- 
time, inattention  to  which  the 
very  best  of  wills  could  only  call 
coarse.  He  therefore  did  not  feel  a 
compunction  at  devoting  himself 
forthwith  to  the  smoked  pullets 
and  dried  fruits  with  which  his 
budget  had  thoughtfully  been 
filled  by  old  Ronan’s.  And  when 
the  guard  Naccanath  said,  over 
his  shoulder,  ^‘Attend  hither,  pro- 
fugitive,” he  replied  that  he  in  no 
wise  feared  that  Elver  folk  would 
work  him  a malignancy  via  use 
and  medicine  of  his  own  and  prop- 
er name,  and  therefore  he  would 
cheerfully  respond  to  it,  which 
was  Mallian,  son  Hazelip  High 
Man  to  the  Hereditor  of  Land 
Qanaras.  ‘*But  at  the  moment  I 
eat,”  he  pointed  out.  He  raised  his 
brows  and  bit  and  chewed. 


The  Crewmen's  supply  had  all 
been  eaten  to  a faretheewell,  and 
they  sat  or  lay  about  snoring  or 
scratching  or  simply  staring  about 
them  as  Mai  approached.  He  had 
come  quite  near  before  it  occured 
to  them  to  stare  at  him.  He  was 
already  among  them  before  any  of 
them  had  made  up  their  minds 
that  he  perhaps  ought  not  to  be. 
But  it  was  not  until  he  had  begun 
to  make  a circuit  of  the  ponderous 
engine  that  anything  like  concern 
began  really  to  make  itself  evident. 
The  sight  of  Bumberboom  at  close 
up  proved  interesting  enough  even 
to  banish  the  train  of  thought 
caused  by  the  sight  of  the  crew 
close  up.  The  same  near-idiot  face 
repeated  over  and  over  again  in 
varying  stages  of  grime,  the  same 
snaggle  and  snarl  of  pale  hair  and 
small,  vacant,  pale  blue  eyes — 
what  did  it  mean? 

It  scarcely  could  mean  that  the 
same  moron  Crew  which  was  now 
attached  to  Bumberboom  had  cre- 
ated it  in  the  first  place.  They 
could  never  have  fashioned  those 
immense  and  massy  wheels  of 
stout  wood  reinforced  with  iron 
and  rimmed  with  broad  iron  tires. 
Never  could  they  have  founded 
that  gigantic  tube  whereon,  in  the 
casting,  figures  of  beasts  and  mon- 
sters had  been  fixed,  never  have 
devized  that  ornate  breech  in  the 
shape  of  a bearded  face  with  lips 
puckered  as  though  whistling,  nor 
the  even  more  ornate  and  in  fact 
rather  frightening  face  which  ter- 


no 

minated  the  great  tube's  other  end, 
mouth  distended  into  an  enormous 
shout — mouth  silent  now,  but 
threatening  of  anything  but  si- 
lence . . . 

Anything  but  silence  now 
among  the  Crew,  whose  disturb- 
ance bore  more  resemblance  to  a 
poultry-yard  than  an  anthill,  run- 
ning and  squawking — thrice  in 
succession  people  fell  full-tilt 
against  Mallian,  but  it  was  certain 
from  their  great  alarm  that  it  had 
not  been  their  aim  to  do  so. 

And  as  they  trotted  about  they 
set  up  a cry  and  howl  which  pres- 
ently resolved  itself  in  Mallian's 
ears  into  the  same  words,  mean- 
ingless as  yet,  which  he  had  heard 
before  from  one  of  them  . . . 
now,  however,  not  as  a ques- 
tion, but  as  an  appeal  for  aid. 
‘'Cappin  MogI  Cappin  Mog!  Cap- 
pin  Mogr 

And  Mai  meanwhile  continued 
his  perambulation  and  examina- 
tion. The  carriage  was  fitted  with 
large  boxes,  but  these  were  locked. 
He  was  about  to  make  a closer  in- 
spection when  someone  bellowed 
close  by,  and  at  the  same  moment, 
something  struck  him  between  the 
shoulder  blades.  He  took  a quick 
step  sideways  before  spinning 
around,  and  the  sight  of  his  face 
acted  as  instant  deterrent  to  the 
one  who  had  evidently  flung  the 
clod  and  was  now  doing  a sort  of 
angry  dance  with  another  clod  in 
his  hand.  His  arms  were  inordi- 
nately long  and  thickly  thewed; 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

chest  and  trunk  were  barrel-thick; 
neck  there  was  none  visible,  and 
the  broadnosed  face  was  alive  with 
fury. 

“Gid  'way!”  it  shouted,  though 
perhaps  with  a shade  more  cau- 
tion than  in  its  previous  bellow. 
*'Gid  way!  Gid  oud!  Don’  touch-a! 
Killya!  Cutcha-troat!” 

And  the  others  of  the  Crew, 
male  and  female,  taking  courage 
from  this  couthless  champion,  be- 
gan to  draw  in  behind  him,  shak- 
ing their  fists. 

“Cutcha-troat,  tellya!  Gid  oud! 
Don’t  touch-a!  Bumberboom! 
Bumberboom!” 

The  rabble  highly  approving 
these  sentiments,  at  once  began  to 
shout  the  word  most  familiar  to 
them : “Bumberboom ! Bumber- 
boom! Bumheibocnnl  Bumher- 
boomr 

Mallian  stood  where  he  was 
and  let  them  howl,  and  by  and  by 
they  began  to  tire  of  it.  He  had  by 
now  become  a familiar  object  to 
them  and,  as  he  neither  moved  nor 
spoke  nor  did  anything  of  further 
interest,  they  grew  bored  with  him, 
and — one  by  one — he  could  see 
some  emotion  too  faint  to  be  won- 
der, perplexity  of  a low  order,  per- 
haps, begin  to  overtake  them.  TTiey 
did  not  really  know  any  more  why 
they  were  there  or  why  they  were 
so  loudly  engaged.  And  so,  first 
one  by  one,  and  then,  as  regarded 
those  who  were  left,  all  of  a sud- 
den, they  ceased  their  commotion 
and  wandered  off. 


BUMBERBOOM 


111 


Not  so  the  one  who  had  thrown 
both  turf  and  threats  at  Mai.  High- 
ly intelligent  he  was  not,  but  nei- 
ther was  he  an  utter  idiot.  He 
knew  that  Mai  had  no  business 
near  the  great  weapon,  and  he 
was  determined  to  get  him  away 
from  it.  Regardless  of  the  de- 
fection of  his  Crew  he  now  came 
a step  nearer,  hitched  up  his  dis- 
solving breeches,  and  menaced 
with  his  hands. 

‘Toll  ya,  gid  oud!"*  he  bel- 
lowed. “Trow  ya  down  and  kill-ya, 
ya  don’  gid  oudl” 

Mai  asked,  “Who  are  you?” 

A look  of  astonishment  came 
upon  the  man’s  face.  He  had  evi- 
dently never  been  asked  the  ques- 
tion before,  and  it  was  not  any 
doubt  as  to  his  identity  but  a shock 
that  his  identity  was  not  universal- 
ly known  which  made  him  go 
slack. 

After  a moment  he  said,  “Who 
my?  My  Cappin  Mog!  Is  who.” 
And  for  emphasis  shouted,  “Mog! 
Mog!  Cappin  Mog!  Cappin  of 
Bumberboom  and  alia  Crew!  Is 
who — ” 

Mallian  allowed  his  own  face 
to  register  an  extreme  mixture  of 
enlightenment,  astonishment,  im- 
pressment, and  self-deprecation. 
“Oh,  you  are  Captain  Mog!” 

The  captain  gave  an  emphatic 
nod  and  grunt,  patted  his  stomach, 
clearly  quite  pleased  with  the  ef- 
fect. “My  Cappin  Mog,”  he  af- 
firmed. “Is  who.” 

“Pardon,  senior  . • • pardon, 


Captain  ...”  He  bowed  and 
showed  his  palms.  “I  did  not 
know,  you  see  . . .”  The  man 
nodded  and  came  close  to  smirk- 
ing and  in  fact  emitted  a pleased 
sound  which  came  close  enough  to 
being  a giggle  to  be  identified  as 
such,  grotesque  as  the  sound 
seemed  coming  from  him.  He 
gazed  from  side  to  side  and  wiped 
his  loose  mouth  with  the  back  of 
his  bristly  paw.  And  at  that,  Mal- 
lian gave  a bound  and  a jump  and 
sailed  forward  and  upward  and 
kicked  him  in  the  side  of  the  head 
and  felled  him  like  a tree. 

Some  of  die  Crew  observed 
what  happened  and  their  hoots  of 
astonishment  brought  others  back 
from  casual  wandering  about  the 
vicinity.  They  formed  a rough  cir- 
cle about  the  two,  though  it  was 
without  either  intention  of  doing 
so  or  awareness  of  the  utility  there- 
of. Several  of  them  growled  and 
even  shouted  at  Mallian  and  bared 
their  dirty  teeth  and  spat.  One  or 
two  even  went  so  far  as  to  look 
about  for  a weapon — but  what  im- 
mediately came  to  view  was  an 
overlooked  loaf  of  bread,  and  in  a 
moment  they  were  too  concerned 
with  an  idiot  quarrel  about  it  to 
pursue  the  audacious  gesture. 

Mog  lay  a while  on  his  side,  his 
eyes  opened,  he  frowned,  he  rolled 
over  on  his  elbows  and  gazed  at 
Mallian  and  at  the  Crewmen.  He 
smacked  his  lips  tentatively. 
“Cutcha-troat,”  he  said,  but  with- 


112 

out  real  passion.  Then  he  raised 
his  rump  and  so  in  stages  got  to 
his  feet.  ‘'Gid  oud,"  he  repeated. 
‘‘Killya  . . He  looked  around 
for  some  means  of  accomplishing 
this,  saw  nothing  save  his  slack- 
mouthed followers  and  the  great 
gun.  Toward  this  he  flung  up  his 
arms.  **Bumherhoomr  he  cried, 
warningly.  "'Bumberbooml  God- 
dam sunamabitchen  big  noise! 
Drop'donvri'dead  r 

His  small  pale  eyes  observed 
approvingly  that  Mai,  apparently 
convinced  by  this  fearsome  threat, 
had  begun  to  walk  away,  and  he 
drew  back  a trifle  to  let  him  pass. 
Whereat  Mai  repeated  his  spring 
and  his  sally  and  knocked  him 
down  again.  This  time  he  re- 
mained down  a much  longer  time, 
and  when  he  next  arose,  it  was  not 
to  address  himself  to  Mai  at  all. 
He  put  his  hands  at  his  hips  and 
threw  back  his  head  and  shouted. 
The  words  meant  nothing  of  them- 
selves to  Mai,  but  the  effect  was 
immediate.  The  Crewmen  left 
their  places  in  the  circle  and  bent 
to  their  positions  in  the  harness 
and  elsewhere.  Mog  took  a deep 
breath.  He  cried,  ‘‘Forehead  . . . 
harsh  r They  bent,  dug  in  their 
feet,  groaned. 

“Bumberhoomr  they  cried. 

“Bumberhoom/''  The  limber  lift- 
ed. 

*'BumheTboofnr  The  trail  lifted. 

“Bum  . . . ber  . . . booml** 
The  ponderous  equipage  trembled, 
shifted.  The  great  wheels  shiv- 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

ered,  dropped  dirt  and  turf. 
Turned.  Turned  slowly.  But 
turned. 

Bumberboom  began  to  move  for- 
ward. 

“You  may  stop  her  here.  Captain 
Mog,”  Mai  said,  presently.  The 
man  looked  at  him.  “Stop?  Here?** 
Mog‘s  face  moved,  uncertainly. 
Mai  gestured,  pointed.  Then  he 
gave  a slight  teeter  or  two,  as 
though  readying  himself  to  jump. 
Mog  crouched,  cried  out,  covered 
his  head  with  his  arms.  He  shout- 
ed, walking  backwards.  And  the 
cannon  s wheels  ceased  to  turn  and 
the  crew  promptly  slipped  its  har- 
ness and  lay  down  in  the  road  like 
dogs. 

Elver  Guard  Naccanath  asked, 
coming  forward  with  his  com- 
peers, “You  do  not  propose  to  leave 
them  there,  I trust?” 

“Not  for  any  longer  than  is  re- 
quired for  us  to  settle  our  inden- 
tures. You  have  an  information  to 
give  me — or,  rather,  two;  like- 
wise, a map.” 

Naccanath's  thin  lips  parted  in 
his  thin,  smooth-shaven  face.  He 
unrolled  something  in  his  hands. 
“Attend,  then  pro — hem — Mal- 
lian  son  Hazelip  High  Man  to  the 
Hereditor  of  Land  Qanaras.  Here 
is  a carto  or  map  which  is  limned 
upon  strong  linen,  and  we  have 
marked  with  red  a few  several 
places  which  bear  upon  this  pres- 
ent business.  Thus:  this  border 
station.  This  road.  Follow  my  fin- 
ger, now  ...  This  road  forks 


BUMBERBOOM 


113 


here  and  here  and  here.  The  right 
of  this  last  one  leads  to  our  capital 
community,  wherein  our  Masters 
of  a surety  can  medicate  your  ques- 
tion— but  thither  you  go  not  now, 
for  instead  you  are  to  follow  via 
the  left  fork  of  this  first  furcation, 
and  this  leads,  as  is  clearly  de- 
lineated, to  the  Great  Rift  and  all 
the  Land  Nor. 

‘'And  concerning  this  same,  ob- 
serve how  we  have  reddled  for  you 
a choice  of  hills,  few  of  which 
overlook  less  than  a league  of  fine 
fat  flatland  nor  fewer  than  two 
prosperous  trading  towns.” 

Mallian’s  pursed  Ups  thrust  out 
in  concentration  between  his 
beard  and  his  moustachioes,  he 
nodded,  traced  the  lines  with  his 
brown  and  furry  fingers,  so  differ- 
ent from  the  thin  pale  digit  of  his 
present  informer,  who,  asked  what 
sundry  of  produce  and  people  Land 
Nor  afforded,  repUed  ffiat  it  was  a 
good  yielder  of  hogs  and  hides  and 
horses,  as  well  as  grain  and  small 
timber,  but  that  its  people  were  of 
a sullen  and  willful  disposition. 
TThough  I do  not  doubt,”  he  con- 
cluded, “that  they  will  be  willing 
enough  to  trade  with  you,” 

“Nor  do  I,”  MalUan  said,  well 
enough  pleased.  He  reached  his 
hand  for  the  map,  but  it  was  not 
forthcoming.  “Come,  come.  Elver 
senior,”  he  said,  reproachfully; 
“surely  you  do  not  think  that  even 
my  own  keen  mind  can  have  com- 
mitted the  carto  to  memory?  Why, 
unless  you  reUnquish  it,  neither  I 


nor  my  newly-gained  companions 
can  be  sure  of  finding  our  way  out 
of  Elver  State  as  expeditiously  as 
all  of  us  might  wish.” 

Naccanath  rolled  the  map  up 
and  thrust  it  into  a tube  of  worked 
leather.  ‘Tou  may  be  well  sure  of 
it,”  he  said,  “for  guard  Durraneth 
and  I will  accompany  you  as  far 
as  the  Rift.  We  would  think  it  but 
ill  hospitality,”  he  said,  “to  do 
other.” 

Mallian  cleared  his  throat  and 
avoided  eyes.  “I  am  like  to  be  over- 
whelmed by  such  high  courtesy. 
But  so  be  it  . . . Captain  Mog! 
Onr 

He  took  his  seat,  with  some  sul- 
lenness, upon  the  cases  fixed  by 
the  gun-carriage,  and,  the  proces- 
sion underway,  diverted  himself 
by  picking  the  locks.  He  found  in 
one  nothing  but  some  handsful  of 
a mouldy-powdery  substance,  and 
in  the  other  nothing  but  an  ill- 
made  book.  With  a shrug  of  his 
shoulders,  he  began  to  turn  the 
dusty  pages  and  to  read.  Presently 
he  cast  a glance,  swiftly  and  suspi- 
ciously, at  the  Elver  pair.  But  they, 
absorbed  in  moody  thought,  spared 
him  no  look  but  rode  silently  along 
on  their  lean  horses.  He  grunted 
and  turned  a leaf. 

The  pothecary  in  the  first  town 
wherein  they  paused  threw  up  his 
hands  as  Mallian  entered.  “I  have 
no  victualry  at  all  to  supply  you 
with,”  he  cried,  in  a trembling  and 
petulant  voice.  "By  reason  of  lack- 


114 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


ing  either  wife  or  servant-woman, 
I eat  in  the  cookshops.  Moreover, 
such  treacles  and  comfits  as  my 
shelves  afford  are  of  a highly  bitter 
and  aperient  sort,  though  a meas- 
ured quantity  may  never  harm  you 
if  you  are  of  a costive  disposition. 

. . . But  what  can  these  terms 
mean  to  him,'*  he  added,  in  a lower 
tone,  as  though  to  himself;  “is  it 
not  known  to  me,  if  to  none  other, 
that  all  these  cannoneers  are  as 
dull  of  wits  as  dogs,  by  virtue  of 
having  neither  bred  nor  gendered 
outside  their  number  for  genera- 
tions? Still,  they  have  the  medi- 
cine of  the  deadly  noise,  and  it  be- 
hooves me  to  speak  dulcetly,”  he 
sighed.  “What  would  you,  senior?" 

“Sixteen  and  one-half  measures 
of  crushed  charcoal,"  said  Mal- 
lian,  “to  begin  with  . . . large 
measures,  the  largest  you  have." 

The  pothecary  s lower  lip 
drooped.  “Hem,  hem,  this  would 
suffice  to  rid  of  wind  the  stomachs 
of  a small  army,  though  to  be  sure 
it  is  a small  army  which  . . 
The  apple  of  his  throat  bobbed  in 
sudden  perceptive  terror.  “Pay  no 
heed  to  my  previous  comments. 
Master!"  he  pleaded.  “I  perceive 
with  utter  conviction  the  falsity  of 
my  conjectures.  Charcoal — six- 
teen and  one-half  large  measures. 
Immediately,  Master!  Immediate- 
ly!” 

He  scurried  about  from  keg  to 
ladle  to  scales,  darting  looks  of  be- 
wilderment at  MaUian.  Presently 
he  inquired,  “And  what  next  is 


your  design,  lordling?  You  say 
fourteen  and  a half  large  meas- 
ures of  sulphur?  It  will  be  my  de- 
light— nonetheless,  may  I not 
point  out  that  sulphur  is  not  in 
current  favor  for  fumations?  Asa- 
foedita  is  much  preferred  nowadays 
as  an  ingredient  to  banish  the 
daemons  and  miasmas,  as  well — 
hem!  Observe  how  I fawn  con- 
tritely for  having  made  the  sugges- 
tion ! Sulphur  it  shall  be  . . ." 

The  third  substance  caused  him 
no  little  concern;  he  nibbled  his 
mouth  and  frowned  and  snuvvled. 
“Snowy  nitrum.  Master?  Forgive 
both  the  poverty  of  my  mind  and 
shop  alike,  but — Hold!  I adjure 
but  myself,  Master-Lord!  Is  not 
'snowy  nitrum*  another  name  for 
what  is  also  termed  the  saline 
stone,  or  saltpeter?  In  one  moment 
I shall  have  looked  into  my  lexi- 
con. Thus,  thus.  And  my  conjec- 
ture was  correct!  Sixty-nine  large 
measures  of  saltpeter,  more  cor- 
rectly denominated  'snowy  ni- 
trum* ...  it  may  well  exhaust 
my  supply,  but  of  that,  nothing. 
The  drysalters  must  wait  their 
pickled  meats  upon  a fresh  sup- 
ply, whenever. 

“I  know  not  the  use  nor  prepara- 
tion of  this  triune  of  charcoal,  sul- 
phur, and  saltpeter.  Shall  I tritu- 
rate it  for  you  with  a mortar  and 
pestle?" 

“By  no  means,"  Mallian  said, 
hastily.  “That  is  . . . hem.  Re- 
flection seems  demanded  here."  He 
pulled  a bit  on  his  beard  and 


BUMBERBOOM 


115 


peeped  from  under  his  lashes  at 
the  pothecary,  a small  and  bony- 
browed  man  of  no  particular  age. 
There  were  things  which  this  one 
was  accustomed  to  doing  which 
Mallian  had  never  done  himself; 
furthermore,  he  had  said  a thing 
which  Mallian  wished  to  hear  be 
said  again  and  at  more  length.  The 
more  he  considered  the  more  he 
favored  the  notion.  At  last  cleared 
his  throat  and  spoke. 

‘‘Senior  pothecary,  is  yours  a 
trade  which  might  be  swiftly  sold 
for  a profit?” 

The  drugsman  looked  out  the 
open  door  in  a quick  and  fearful 
look.  He  put  his  dry  lips  up  to  Mal- 
lian’s  sun-browned  ear.  “There  is 
no  business  to  be  sold  for  a profit 
in  Elver  State,”  he  hissed.  “The 
taxers  lurk  like  beasts  of  prey  . . . 
Why  do  you  ask?  There  is  no  busi- 
ness even  to  be  held  for  a profit. 
Why,  lordling  mine,  do  you  ask? 
What  is  stational  commerce  to 
you?  You  pass  through,  Master, 
with  your  giant  thundermaker  and 
you  are  supplied  and  you  pass  on 
and  you  pass  on.  Neither  profits 
nor  taxes  nor  stocks  nor  sales  are 
matters  you  need  review  . . • 
Why  do  you  ask?** 

Indeed,  the  shop  did  have  a de- 
cidedly well-taxed  look  to  it  and 
its  meager  shelves.  Mai  was  fortu- 
nate in  having  obtained  the  things 
he  wanted.  “The  Free  Company  of 
Cannoneers — ” he  caught  the  open 
mouth,  blank  look — “Bumber- 
boom,  that  is — ” “Oh,  aye.  Master. 


Bumberboom.”  “ — The  Free  Com- 
pany of  Cannoneers  is  in  need  of 
the  services  of  a responsible  and 
learned  man,  versed  in  such  medi- 
cines as  history  and,  for  another 
example,  pothecation.  And  it  thus 
befalls  me  to  wonder — ” 

The  pothecary  genuflected  and 
kissed  Mallian's  hands  and  knees. 
He  locked  his  shop  and  deposited 
the  keys  with  the  local  chirurgeon. 
And  that  night  whilst  the  Crew 
lay  deep  in  snoring  and  the  Elver 
Guards  camped  disdainfully  apart 
with  heads  upon  saddles,  he  and 
the  pothecary  spoke  long  ad  low 
together  beside  a guttering  fire,  and 
the  coldly  indififerent  stars  pulsed 
overhead. 

“No,”  said  the  chymist,  whose 
name  was  Zembac  Fix.  “No,  Mas- 
ter-Lord, I have  made  no  especial 
study  of  the  matter.  All  of  my  life, 
Bumberboom — or,  as  some  call  it. 
Juggernaut — has  been  a byword. 
Bad  mothers  frighten  bad  children 
with  it.  One  comes  across  refer- 
ences to  it  in  chronicles.  Whence 
it  first  came,  neither  do  I nor  any- 
one else  know.  Nor  who  first  de- 
vised it.  I was  a younger  man 
when  first  I saw  it;  most  fled  in 
terror  or  hasted  to  bring  out  food, 
but  I tarried  as  near  as  I dared.  So 
it  was,  or  so  it  seemed,  that  none 
but  I noticed  that  these  fearsome 
fellows  were  little  better,  if  better 
at  all,  than  idiots.  This  one  Mog 
was  not  then  their  captain.  I know 
not  what  he  was  named,  'twas  long 
ago  and  my  mind  has  been 


116 

crammed  overfull  ever  since  of 
drug  receipts  and  tax-demands. 
Well,  hem  a hum.  But  he  was  not 
quite  an  idiot;  indeed,  I think  he 
was  a wit  wittier  than  this  one. 
Let  us  say  a moron,  then.  And  oflE 
they  trundled,  I wondering  as  they 
went.  Twice  more  before  today 
have  I seen  them.  And  heard  of 
them  more  than  twice.  It  has  been 
counted  a cause  for  thanks  that, 
unhke  other  wandering  armsmen, 
they  never  ravished  nor  rapted 
away  any  women.  They  took  no  re- 
cruits, either. 

“The  reason  for  this  gensual 
clannishness,  I cannot  say.  But  its 
results  are  plain:  No  fresh  genes 
have  come  their  way  since,  aye, 
hem,  who  knows  when?  And  what- 
soever flaws  they  had  amongst 
them  to  start  with,  such  have  been 
multiplied  and  squared  and  cubed, 
to  use  the  tongue  of  the  medicine 
called  mathematic.  And  thus  only 
idiot  habit  keeps  them  going  and 
coming  and  passing  to  and  fro.  And 
only  equally  idiot  habit  keeps  the 
rest  of  the  world  afearing  them 
and  yielding  to  them.  I cannot  say 
how  old  this  olden  book  youVe 
found  may  be — a century  at  least, 
I venture.  It  is  not  by  the  gun 
alone,  then,  nor  by  medicine 
alone,  then,  that  the  great  noise 
and  destruction  comes  ...  No 
. . . But  by  these  three  sub- 
stances, mixed  and  moisted  and 
dried  and  cracked  and  sieved.  By 
my  cod  and  cullions,  this  is  no 
small  thing  you  have  discovered!” 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

Mallian  spat  into  the  fire.  Then 
he  reached  out  in  the  dimness  and 
gently  took  Zembac  Fix,  the  pothe- 
cary,  by  the  throat.  “You  must  re- 
member that  pronoun,”  he  said 
softly.  He  felt  the  apple  of  the 
throat  bob  up  and  down.  “1.  Not 
you.  I.  Not  we.  I . . . Fortunate- 
ly Mallian  son  Hazelip  is  of  a 
trusting  nature.”  He  released  his 
grasp. 

^'Fortunately  . . .”  said  Fix,  in 
a tremulous  whisper. 

“I  have  great  plans.  Great  needs. 
I can  offer  great  rewards.  You,  po- 
tionman,  may  become  the  coun- 
cillor of  the  councillors  of  kings. 
Therefore  be  exceedingly  virtuous. 
And  exceedingly  cautious.” 

He  gazed  into  the  other^s  eyes, 
glinted  by  a single  dull-red  spot 
of  fire-glow  in  each.  And  watched 
them  move  as  the  other  nodded. 

They  stood  upon  the  lip  of  the 
cliff.  There  down  beyond  lay  the 
Rift,  wide  and  uneven  and  hum- 
mocked  here  and  there;  and  be- 
yond on  the  other  side  the  ruins 
huddled  haggardly.  Mallian  spat 
stoutly.  “It  will  be  no  easy  cross- 
ing,” he  observed.  “Still,  I perceive 
there  is  a road  of  sorts,  and  cross 
we  must.  Nevertheless  . . .” 

He  paused  so  long  that  Durra- 
neth  and  Naccanath  stirred  some- 
what restlessly,  and  the  unease 
communicated  itself  to  the  other 
Elvers  who  had  ridden  out  from 
their  near-adjacent  city  to  witness 
both  arrival  and  departure. 


BUMBERBOOM 


117 


"What  mean  you  by  neverthe- 
less}**  Naccanath  asked — perhaps 
still  recollecting  his  flea-bite,  he 
reined  his  horse  up  a way  apart 
from  Bumberboom  and  its  Crew. 
The  way  hither  had  followed  no 
rigid  schedule.  The  Crew  waked 
to  the  day  when  it  felt  the  day  full 
upon  it,  was  by  no  means  immedi- 
ately prepared  for  toil,  and  made 
up  for  its  swiftness  at  eating  by  its 
almost  pythonic  requirements  for 
post-digestive  rests.  Naccanath 
had  urgently  hinted  for  more 
speed;  Mai  had — rather  less  ur- 
gently— passed  it  on  to  Captain 
Mog,  and  Captain  Mog  had  cursed 
and  kicked  and  cudgeled  . . • 
and  gotten  a short  burst  of  in- 
creased pace  ...  for  a moment 
or  so.  At  intervals. 

‘'By  nevertheless^**  Mallian  said, 
rather  slowly,  "I  mean  that  there 
is  something  which  we  must  do  be- 
fore we  begin  to  cross.**  He  issued 
a loud  order  to  Mog,  who  issued  a 
louder  one.  Mog  knew  nothing  of 
Mallian*s  quest,  nothing  of  the 
problem  behind  Mallian*s  ques- 
tion. All  he  knew  to  the  point  was 
that  if  Mai  asked  him  to  do  some- 
thing and  he  did  not  do  it,  he 
would  be  kicked  in  the  head.  He 
had  tried  a number  of  ways  to 
avoid  this,  but  the  only  one  which 
ever  worked  was  to  obey  orders. 
Quickly. 

Slowly,  therefore,  erratically, 
Bumberboom  began  to  move 
around  until  its  great  muzzle  was 
pointing  toward  the  Rift.  Another 


order,  and  the  massive  gun  was  un- 
limbered. Its  trail  now  rested  on 
the  ground.  Naccanath  cleared  his 
throat,  looked  at  Durraneth.  Dur- 
raneth  returned  the  look. 

“What — and  I point  out  the  ex- 
treme civility  with  which  the  ques- 
tion is  asked — what  is  it  your  in- 
tention to  have  done  now,  son 
Hazelip?" 

Mai  stroked  the  points  of  his 
beard.  “It  is  my  intention  to  fire 
the  gun,**  he  said. 

The  horsemen  backed  up  a pace 
or  tvv^o  or  three  as  though  they  had 
practiced  the  movement.  “Fire — 
fire  Bumberboom}** 

“So  some  call  it.  Others,  I un- 
derstand, prefer  the  name  of  Jug- 
gernaut.** 

One  of  the  Elvers  said,  “I  have 
not  heard  that  this  has  been  done 
at  all  of  late.**  He  cleared  his 
throat  twice. 

“So  much  the  better  for  doing 
it  now.  The  crew  wants  practice, 
and  no  one  can  object  to  whatever 
damage  may  be  done  the  Rift.** 

Naccanath  said,  rather  sharply, 
“The  Rift!  It  is  not  the  Rift  which 
concerns  us — we  are  still  on  Elver 
soil,  and  I consider  the  possible 
great  damage  which  may  be  done 
thereto  . . . including,  and  this 
is  no  small  consideration,  to  us — 
It  would  be  much  better  for  you  to 
wait  until  you  are  already  in  the 
Rift.** 

“No  it  would  not.  I desire  to 
calculate  a matter  called  range 
...  a matter  of  arcane  medicine 


118 

which  it  will  henceforth  be  impor- 
tant for  me  to  know  . . . and  in 
particular  the  trajectory  as  calcu- 
lated from  an  eminence  of  land, 
as  it  might  be  a cliflF  or  hill.” 

The  Elvers  consulted  hurriedly 
together  and  then  requested  that 
Mallian  might  delay  his  calcula- 
tions until  they  were  able  to  get 
well  away  from  the  site.  He 
frowned,  gave  a short  and  slightly 
impatient  nod,  and  they  were  off 
even  faster  than  the  two  Dwerfy- 
men  had  gone,  the  time  Mallian 
had  hidden  in  the  ditch. 

'They  fear  the  fatal  noise,”  he 
said  to  Zembac  Fix,  with  a twisted 
grin.  "It  is  as  well.  The  less  they 
see,  the  better  so.  Well.  Down  goes 
the  large-grained  powder  as  the 
book  directs.  Hold  firm  the  ladle, 
Zembac  Fix.  So.  So.  Smoothly.  So.” 
Mallian  took  the  ram  and  tried  to 
follow  the  directions  so  that  the 
powder  was  securely  back  where  it 
should  be  but  not  so  firmly  packed 
that  it  would  not  properly  ignite. 
Then,  satisfied,  he  ordered  the 
shot  brought  forward.  Mog  and  his 
mates  came  up  with  the  great 
round  stone,  hoisted  it  . . . 
dropped  it.  The  man  responsible 
howled  for  his  toes  and  then 
howled  for  his  ribs  as  Mog  beat 
upon  them.  But  it  was  done  at  last. 

Next  the  fine  powder  was  laid 
in  a train  along  the  groove  to  the 
touch-hole.  "What  next?”  asked 
Mallian.  Fix  looked  into  the  book. 
"Next  is  fire,”  he  said.  "Captain 
Mog!  A brand  of  fire!” 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

The  Crewmen  seemed  unsure  of 
how  they  should  seem.  What  mem- 
ories they  might  hold  of  actual 
gunfire  must  be  at  many  removes 
and  quite  dim,  muted  not  by  time 
alone  but  by  the  thick  membranes 
of  their  sluggish  minds.  They  had 
been  bred  to  the  gun,  lived  by  and 
for  the  gun,  had  nought  but  the 
great  gun  at  all.  Yet  they  had  never 
fired  it,  had  forgotten  how  to  make 
its  fuel,  forgotten  perhaps  all  save 
some  dim  glints  of  recollections  of 
old  mumblings  and  mutterings 
which  served  them  for  history. 
They  w^ere  excited.  They  were  un- 
easy. Something  new  had  come 
into  their  brute  lives.  One  of  them, 
who  had  watched  the  loading,  per- 
haps spoke  for  all.  "Bumberboom 
. . . Bumberboom  eat,”  he  said. 

Zembac  Fix  received  the  burn- 
ing stick  and  said,  before  handing 
it  to  Mai,  "Stand  carefully  as  the 
handbook  directs,  lest  the  cannon 
crush  you  by  its — ” But  Mallian, 
impatient,  seized  the  fire  and 
thrust  it  at  the  train  of  powder.  It 
hissed,  vanished.  Then,  with  a 
roar  like  thunder  waging  war  on 
thunder,  the  hideous  muzzle- 
mouth  spewed  flame  and  smoke. 
The  gun  leaped  as  though  wound- 
ed, fell  back,  subsided.  Darkness, 
thick  darkness,  evil  stench  sur- 
rounded them.  Gradually,  it 
cleared  away.  They  looked  at  each 
other.  ".  . . recoil,”  Zembac  Fix 
finished  his  sentence. 

The  Crew  rose  slowly  from  the 
ground,  idiot  faces  round  with 


BUMBERBOOM 


119 


awe  and  terror  and  joy.  The  occa- 
sion required  words.  They  found 
them — or,  at  least,  it.  “Bumber- 
booml  BMwberboom!  Buwber- 
hoom\**  They  leaped  and  lurched 
and  shouted  and  roared. 

**Bumberbooml 

**Bumberbooml 

'*Bumberboomr 

Zembac  Fix  pointed  far  out 
into  the  Rift.  'The  shot  seems  to 
have  scored  a trench  along  that 
hillock.  Ha!  Ahem  hum-hum!’' 

"So  I see  . . . yes.  Suppose 
that  were  a row  of  houses.  Ha!  Ha- 
ha!” 

"Elver  houses!” 

"Bandy  houses!” 

"Hafea!” 

Something  caught  their  eye. 
Something  gleamed  there  in  the 
trench  now  as  clouds  drifted  away 
and  the  sun  came  through — a 
something  which  seemed  to  have 
slightly  deflected  the  path  of  the 
stone  shot.  They  discussed  what  it 
might  be,  agreed  that  whatever  it 
might  be  could  well  go  on  waiting. 
"Captain  Mog!  On!” 

'Torehead  . . . harshV* 

It  was  a while  later  that  they 
saw  the  Elvers  descending  by  an- 
other road  which  allowed  them  to 
steer  far  clear  of  the  great  gun  and 
its  Crew — a line  of  Elver  horse- 
men and  behind  each  guard  and 
riding  on  the  crupper,  a man  with 
a spade.  "Curious,”  said  Mai. 
"Very  curious,  Master-Lord,” 
agreed  Zembac  Fix.  But  by  the 
time  they  themselves  had  gotten 


close  enough  to  leave  the  toiling, 
chanting  Crew  and  go  and  see,  the 
sight  was  more  than  merely  curi- 
ous. 

"Observe,  Mallian  son  Hazelip,” 
said  Naccanath,  in  an  odd  tone 
and  a gesture.  '"See  what  sight  the 
monstrous  voice  of  Bumberboom 
has  uncovered.” 

It  was  a sight  indeed.  The  hil- 
lock had  been  shoveled  and  the 
ground  excavated  a good  way  be- 
neath the  surface  of  the  general 
ground-level.  There  lay  revealed 
the  immense  figure  of  an  image 
with  upraised  arm  and  with  a 
crown  or  coronet  upon  its  head 
from  which  radiated  a series  of 
great  spikes  at  least  twice  the 
length  of  a man.  As  far  as  they 
could  see,  it  was  clad  in  a flowing 
garment  of  some  strange  sort.  It 
was  an  unfamiliar  shade  of  blue- 
green  which  was  almost  black. 

"What  is  it?”  asked  Mallian, 
voice  low  with  awe. 

The  Elvers  shrugged.  "Who  can 
say  . . . it  seems  to  be  hollow.” 
Thus  Naccanath.  Durraneth  had 
something  else  to  say. 

"Do  you  recall,  Frince  of  Qa- 
naras,”  he  began — Mallian  noted 
his  own  promotion  in  rank  but 
showed  nothing  on  his  face — "Do 
you  recall  what  said  the  Dwerfy 
constable?  ...  as  say  they  all, 
of  course  . . . that  before  the 
Great  Gene  Shift  all  men  were  of 
their  dwerfish  size?” 

Mallian  said,  "I  do  recall.  What 
of  it?” 


120 

Slowly  Durraneth  said,  "This 
great  image  is  hollow.  There  are 
passages  within.  But  the  spaces 
seem  exceedingly  small.  Do  you 
suppose — ” 

"Do  I suppose  that  this  evi- 
dences a possible  truth  to  the  ab- 
surd Bandy  boast?  Never!  As  well 
declare  that  the  gigantic  statue 
demonstrates  that  the  original 
form  of  mankind  was  that  of  the 
race  of  the  gigants!” 

Durraneth  nodded  slowly.  Then 
his  eyes  moved  from  gigantic  statue 
to  gigantic  gun  and  back  once 
more.  " I wish  . . he  began.  "I 
wish  I knew  what  it  had  held  in 
its  hand  . . he  said.  "Oh,  I do 
not  know,  of  course,  that  it  had 
held  anything  in  its  hand.  It  has 
an  arm,  it  must  have  had  a hand. 
, . . No  consequence;  it  was  a 
mere  sudden  fancy,  of  no  rational 
importance.’' 

But  Mallian  had  now  a ques- 
tion of  his  own.  He  pointed  down 
into  the  pit,  past  a fallen  tree,  to 
where  four  Elvers  stood  regarding 
the  newly-found  wonder  and  a 
fifth  stood  upon  its  face.  On  the 
brim  stood  a box  of  strange  sort, 
from  which  wires  led  down  to  the 
body  of  the  statue.  "What  is  that?” 
he  asked. 

Durraneth  shrugged.  "An  en- 
gine ...  a toy,  really.  It  simu- 
lates a magnetical  current.  Really, 
it  tells  us  nothing — save  only  that 
the  entire  figure  seems  to  be  made 
of  metal.  All  of  it!  Incredible.  No, 
I suppose  you  are  correct  About 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

the  original  stature  of  man.  The 
matter,  I must  suppose,  remains 
as  before  . . .”  For  yet  another 
moment  he  stood  there,  musing. 
Then  he  said,  "When  you  are 
ready.  Prince,  to  pose  your  ques- 
tion, we  will  be  ready  to  serve  you 
in  seeking  its  answer.  Do  not  tarry 
too  long  among  the  morose  and 
barbarous  folk  of  Nor.  Fare  you 
well.  Fare  you  well.” 

The  morose  and  barbarous  folk 
of  Nor  had  for  the  most  part,  fore- 
warned by  the  echoing  roar  of 
Bumberboom’s  sole  shot  and,  fur- 
ther, by  the  sight  of  it  being  toiled 
across  the  Trans-Rift  Road,  fled 
into  the  raddled  ruins  where  it  was 
hardly  practicable  to  follow  them. 
They  had  taken  much  of  their  sub- 
stance with  them,  but  the  Crew 
were  experienced  foragers;  noses 
keen  as  dogs’,  they  soon  sniffed  out 
food  and  even  sooner  devoured  it. 

Mallian  had  no  desire  to  go 
groping  about  in  the  ruins  after 
anyone.  He  consulted  the  map — 
Naccanath  still  held  the  leathern 
tube,  but  Mai  held  the  map, 
whether  Naccanath  knew  it  or  not 
— and  consulted  Zembac  Pix  as 
well.  "I  would  that  I had  ^reflected 
to  demand,  hem  a hum,  to  request 
horses  of  the  Elvers.  Doubtless  they 
could  be  trained  to  pull  the  gun." 

The  pothecary’s  eyes  narrowed 
beneath  their  bony  brows,  and  he 
smiled  a knowing  smile.  "Horses 
will  come  later,”  he  said.  "Horses 
. . . and  many  other  things  . . 


BUMBERBOOM 


121 


Getting  Bumberboom  up  a hill 
had  to  come  first.  After  that  would 
come  supplies — not  hastily  prof- 
fered or  hastily  seized  to  be  hastily 
gobbled,  but  eflBciently  levied,  to 
be  efficiently  distributed.  And  ef- 
ficiently consumed?  Not  all  of 
them.  The  key  word  was  surplus. 
Surplus  of  commodity  meant 
trade,  which  meant  wealth  and 
power.  One  area  of  farms  and 
towns  to  start  with.  Power  firmly 
established  there  meant  a fulcrum 
firmly  established  there.  And  with 
a fulcrum  once  established,  what 
might  not  leverage  do? 

But  haste  was  not  to  be  in- 
dulged in.  Leaving  Zembac  Pix  in 
charge  of  gun  and  crew,  Mai  set 
off  to  scout  out  the  land,  with  a 
particular  emphasis  on  hills.  The 
first  one  he  came  to  overlooked,  to 
be  sure,  fine  fat  fields  and  no  less 
than  four  towns,  all  of  them  pros- 
perous, but  the  roads  leading  up 
the  hill  were  too  narrow  by  far  to 
admit  of  Bumberboom  s huge  car- 
riage being  taken  up.  Widening 
would  be  a matter  of  months.  Not 
to  be  thought  of.  The  second  hill 
was  easy  of  access  but  looked  down 
on  one  small  town  only,  and  that 
none  too  favorsome  in  its  appear- 
ance. He  sighed,  pressed  on.  A 
third  hill  was  well-located  but 
culminated  in  a peak  of  rocky 
scarps  such  as  could  afford  abid- 
ing-place only  to  birds.  A fourth 
. . . Afifth  . . . 

Perhaps  it  was  the  seventh  hill 
which  seemed  so  ideal  in  every 


way  but  one.  There  was  a slope  of 
mountable  angle,  the  top  was  both 
flat  and  wide,  with  enough  trees 
to  provide  shade  when  desired  and 
yet  without  interfering  with  the 
maneuverability"  of  the  great  gun. 
From  the  summit  Mai  could  see 
widespread  and  fruitful  fields,  and 
the  rooftops  of  several  towns.  He 
had  passed  by  two  of  them  and  ob- 
served with  approbation  the  signs 
of  good  care  and  productivity,  and 
a third  appeared  to  be  large  enough 
to  justify  an  assumption  of  the 
same.  It  was  as  tempting,  as  invit- 
ing from  above  as  it  had  seemed 
from  below;  therefore,  he  had  sur- 
mounted it  despite  a difficulty 
exemplified  in  the  mud  even  now 
drying  on  his  feet  and  shanks. 
There  was  definitely  a current; 
one  could  not  exactly  say  that  a 
swamp  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  hill 
athwart  the  only  possible  ap- 
proach, but  there  was  no  gravel- 
bottomed  shallow  ford,  though 
carefully  he  looked  for  one.  Mud, 
sticky,  catchy  mud — and  Bum- 
berboom mired  securely  was  as 
good  as  no  Bumberboom  at  all. 
Mallian  sighed  and  retraced  his 
steps. 

There  was  a man  in  the  water 
when  he  came  through  it  again, 
breeches  slung  around  his  shoulder 
and  shirt  tucked  up  shamelessly 
around  his  ribs,  and  he  was  spear- 
ing small  fish  with  a trident.  ‘Tor- 
tune  favor  you,”  said  Mai. 

The  man  said,  “Mm.” 

“Fortune  favor  you,”  repeated 


122 

Mai,  a trifle  louder,  a trifle  an- 
noyed. 

“We  don’t  say,  ‘Fortune  favor 
you’  in  these  parts.” 

“Oh?  What  do  you  say,  then?” 

“We  say,  ‘Mm.’  ” 

“Oh.  Well,  then— Mm.” 

“Mm.”  And  the  man  speared 
another  small  fish,  and  another, 
gutted  them  and  strung  them.  He 
had  set  up  a small  makeshift 
smokehouse  ashore,  and  now  pro- 
ceeded to  deposit  his  catch  therein 
before  returning  to  securing  more. 

“You  prefer  smoked  fish  to  fresh 
fish?” 

“No,  I don’t,”  the  man  said  de- 
cidedly. “But  they  keep  and  fresh 
ones  don’t.  Be  you  purblind?  Look- 
see  that  dried  mud  yonder  side. 
And  nigh  side.  I catch  fish  while 
there  be  water.  Soon  there’ll  be 
none  till  the  rains.” 

Mallian  wondered  that  he  had 
not  observed  this  before.  “Senior, 
I thank  you,”  he  said  sincerely. 
“Now  indulgently  inform  me  what 
you  say  in  these  parts  for  farewell.” 

The  man  peered  into  the  water. 
“We  say,  ‘Mm,’  ” he  answered. 

Mai  sighed.  “Mm.” 

“Mm,”  said  the  fisherman.  He 
scratched  his  navel  and  speared 
another  fish. 

“‘What  governance  have  you  in 
these  parts,”  he  enquired  of  a man 
leading  a pack-horse  as  he  passed 
through  the  next  town. 

“None,”  said  the  man.  “And 
wants  none.  The  Land  Nor  is  non- 
governanced,  by  definition.” 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

“I  see.  I thank  you.  Mm,”  said 
Mai. 

“Mm,”  said  the  packman. 

He  accompanied  the  great  gun 
all  the  way,  but  sent  Zembac  Fix 
ahead  and  aside  to  spread  the 
word  that  other  lands  and  their 
rulers — as  it  might  be  the  Kings 
of  the  Dwerfs  or  the  Masters  of  El- 
ver State — envying  the  ungovern- 
anced  condition  of  Land  Nor,  had 
determined  to  send  armies,  troops, 
spies,  and  odier  means  of  assault 
thereto,  with  the  intention  of  es- 
tablishing a governance  over  it  and 
over  its  people.  But  that  the  Free 
Company  of  Cannoneers,  hearing 
of  the  daemonical  plan,  had  come 
unsolicited  to  the  defense  of  Land 
Nor  with  a weapon  more  utile 
than  a thousand  swords,  videlicet, 
the  great  cannon  BUMBER- 
BGOM.  Zembac  Fix  went  forth 
and  fro  and  by  and  by  caught  up 
with  Mai  and  Mog  and  Crew 
where  they  were  encamped  on  a 
threshing-floor. 

“Spread  you  the  word?” 

“Most  diligently,  Master-Lord.” 

“And  with  what  countenance 
and  comments  did  they  receive  it?” 

The  pothecary  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate. “For  the  most  part,”  he  said, 
“without  change  of  countenance 
and  with  no  other  comment  than 
the  labial  consonant,  Mm.” 

Mai  pondered.  Then  he  raised 
his  eyes.  “You  say,  ‘For  the  most 
part’—” 

“A  true  relation  of  my  state- 
ment, Master-Lord.  There  was  an 


BUMBERBOOM 


123 


exception,  a tiresome  and  philoso- 
phizing man  who  keeps  an  hostelry 
for  the  distribution  of  liquor  of 
malt’' — here  Zembac  Pix  wet  his 
lips  very  slightly  and  made  a small 
smile — **and  his  comment  was  to 
the  eflFect  that  Land  Nor  is  non- 
governanced  by  definition  and  it 
thus  follows  that  Land  Nor  can- 
not be  governanced  inasmuch  as 
according  to  the  laws  of  logic,  a 
thing  is  not  what  it  is  not  but  is 
what  it  is,  and  to  speak  of  the  gov- 
ernancing  of  Land  Nor  is  to  speak 
of  the  moving  of  the  immovable 
which  is  to  speak  nonsense.  And 
much  other  words  he  spoke,  but 
only  to  recapitulate  what  he  had 
already  spoken.” 

Mai  said  nothing,  but  after  a 
moment  he  shook  his  head.  Then 
he  rose  from  the  threshing-floor. 
"'Captain  MogI  OnT 

Captain  Mog  rose  from  the 
threshing-floor.  "Forehead — 
harsh!” 

The  crew  rose  from  the  thresh- 
ing-floor and  fell  to  in  its  sundry 
posts  and  places.  "Bumberboom! 
Bwwberboom!  Bumberboom! 

” Bumberboom  r 

The  great  wheels  trembled, 

**Bumberboomr 

The  great  wheels  moved. 

**Bumberboom!” 

The  great  wheels  turned. 

Along  the  dusty  roads  it  trun- 
dled and  rumbled.  Not  in  one  day 
did  it  reach  the  base  of  the  hill, 
nor  in  two,  nor  three.  But  by  the 
time  it  reached  it,  most  of  the 


marshy  stream  had  vanished  away, 
leaving  a foundation  of  good  hard, 
sun-baked  mud.  Fallen  trees  were 
selected  and  trimmed  to  act  as 
brakes  and  props.  And  when  the 
now-dwindled  stream  had  dwin- 
dled to  a mere  trickle,  they  began 
the  ascent.  They  shouted,  they 
chanted,  they  grunted  rhythmical- 
ly, they  howled.  They  pushed,  they 
pulled,  they  levered.  Now  and 
then  they  turned  a rope  around  a 
stout  tree;  now  and  then  they  rest- 
ed the  gun  upon  the  logs  and  pant- 
ed and  drew  breath,  then  fell  to 
once  again.  "Bumberboom/  Bum- 
berboom! Bumberboom/” 

And  at  last  they  dragged  it  up 
upon  the  very  crown  and  summit 
of  the  hill,  wheeled  it  into  the  best 
place  of  vantage,  and  unlimbered 
it.  "Now,”  said  Mai,  "to  compose 
and  distribute  a proclamation.” 
Zembac  Pix  assisted  him  in  the 
wording  of  it,  which  was  to  the  ef- 
fect that  the  Free  Company  of 
Cannoneers  had  now  commenced 
the  arduous  duty  of  defending 
Land  Nor*  against  alien  and  hos- 
tile forces  intent  upon  establish- 
ing a governance  over  the  Land 
aforesaid.  And  that  in  order  to 
compensate  the  previously  de- 
nominated Free  Company  and  in 
order  to  sustain  it  subsequently 
and  to  guarantee  its  defensive  pos- 
tures, voluntary  contributions  ac- 
cording to  the  schedule  subap- 
pended would  be  received.  Each 
town  was  held  responsible  for  col- 
lecting the  donatives  of  its  citizens 


124 


FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 


and  should  any  town  fail  to  collect 
and  transport  the  voluntaries  as- 
sessed it,  this  would  reveal  that  it 
was  secretly  supporting  the  tyran- 
nical alien  pro-governance  plan 
Whereat,  it  would  be  necessary  for 
the  Free  Company  to  bombard  the 
town  aforesaid.  And  herein  fail 
not. 

‘'How  shall  we  sign  it?”  asked 
Mai,  mightily  pleased  by  the  sev- 
eral crisp  turns  of  phrase. 

“Might  I suggest,  Master-Lord, 
a succint:  Mallian,  General- 
Commandanting 

“Hem  a hum  . . . Very  good. 
But  ...  do  you  not  recollect 
how  the  Elver  Guard  referred  to 
me  as  'Prince'?  I do  not  wish  to 
appear  high-flown  or  much-given 
to  elaborate  titles.  What  think  you, 
then,  of  a simple  Mallian,  Prince; 
what?” 

Zembac  Piz  nibbled  the  end  of 
his  quill.  “Beautifully  suggested, 
Lordling.  Subsequently.  When 
they  are  ready.  One  must  not  seem 
over-humble  to  commence  with.” 

A breeze  wafted  up  from  the 
terrain  below  and  it  conveyed  in 
it  a hint  of  hogs,  hides,  horses,  and 
others  of  the  rich  usufructs  of  the 
land.  A faint  smile  played  upon 
Mallian’s  features.  “I  allow  myself 
to  be  persuaded,”  he  said.  “So  be  it. 
Go  now,  have  copies  made,  post 
them  in  the  public  places  and  pro- 
claim it  at  the  cross-roads.  You 
may  accompany  the  first  train  of 
tribute,  a hum  hum,  of  donative 
. . . if  you  wish.” 


Zembac  Pix  declared  it  would 
be  his  pleasure.  He  descended.  He 
ascended.  Time  had  elapsed. 
“Canting  and  poxy  pothecary!” 
Mai  cried,  raging.  “Where  have  you 
been?  And  why  so  long?  Where 
are  the  voluntaries  of  food  and 
drink  and  staples,  of  steeds  and  of 
trade-goods  and  manufactured  ar- 
ticlery?  From  what  knacker's  yard 
did  you  steal  that  wretched  beast 
which  mocks  the  name  of  horse? 
Answer!  Reply!  And  give  good  ac- 
count, else  I will  spread  you  to  the 
off-wheel  of  Juggernaut  and  flog 
you  with  the  traces!” 

Zembac  Pix  descended  delicate- 
ly from  the  scrap  of  rug  bound 
with  a rope  cinch  which  served 
him  for  saddle,  and  was  momen- 
tarily seized  with  a spasmodic  con- 
traction of  the  glottis  which  im- 
peded his  speech  and  may  possibly 
have  been  responsible  as  well  for 
the  slight  instability  of  his  gait. 
And  in  his  arms  he  tenderly  cud- 
dled a firkin  containing  some  sort 
of  liqueous  matter. 

“Master-Lord,”  he  began,  “with 
the  utmost  diligence  have  I carried 
out  every  word  of  your  instruc- 
tions, whether  plainly  expressed  or 
merely  implied.  I purchased  writ- 
ing materials,  I made  clear  copies 
in  the  most  exquisite  calligraphy, 
and  I long  retained  in  my  posses- 
sion a specimen  the  mere  sight  of 
which  would  instantly  persuade 
you;  alas,  that  on  returning  hither 
I was  with  infinite  reluctance  con- 
strained to  employ  it  for  a usage 


BUMBERBOOM 


125 


too  gross  to  be  named  between  us 
— hem  hem — though  even  kings 
must  live  by  nature. 

‘‘Furthermore  I posted  them  in 
the  public  places  and  I proclaimed 
their  message  at  the  cross-roads. 
Moreover  I entered  into  all  places 
of  resort  and  refreshment  in  order 
the  more  thoroughly  to  dissemi- 
nate the  matter.  Conceive,  then, 
with  what  incredulous  and  tearful 
regret  I must  report  that,  far  from 
hastening  to  contribute  to  the  meri- 
torious support  of  the  Free  Com- 
pany, they  merely  hastened  to  con- 
fect pellets  of  wool  and  wax  to 
stuff  into  their  ears  ‘to  save  them*, 
as  they  said,  ‘from  the  horrid  noise 
and  torturesome  sound*  of  Bum- 
berboom  . . . The  steed  and  this 
firkin  of  liquor  of  malt  do  not  rep- 
resent, Lordling,  even  one  single 
poor  contributor  but  only  my  suc- 
cess in  a game  of  skill  at  which  I 
was  constrained  to  participate, 
they  threatening  me  with  many 
mischiefs  and  malignancies  should 
I refuse.** 

There  was  a long,  long  silence. 
Then  Zembac  Fix,  sighing  deeply, 
drew  from  the  firkin  of  liquor  a 
quantity  in  a leather  cup  and  of- 
fered it  to  Mallian.  And  in  truth 
it  did  not  smell  ill.  The  breeze 
played  upon  the  hill;  the  crewmen 
dozed  or  picked  for  lice;  the  sun 
was  warm.  “To  think  of  such  in- 
gratitude,** Mai  said,  after  a while. 
Zembac  Fix  wept  afresh  to  think  of 
it.  They  were  mildly  surprised  to 
find  themselves  holding  to  the 


wheels  of  the  cannon  and  gazing 
down  upon  the  reprobate  lands  be- 
low. 

“I  owe  it  to  my  father  not  to  dis- 
grace his  name  and  station  by  a 
breach  of  my  word,  would  you  not 
agree?** 

“Utterly,  Master-Lord.** 

“I  said  that  contumacy  would 
merit  bombardment.**  He  belched 
slightly  upon  the  vowels  of  the  last 
word.  “And  so  it  must  be.** 

In  this  they  were  in  perfect  ac- 
cord, but  a slight  difference  of 
opinion  now  arose  as  to  whether 
the  town  nearest  below  lay  at  a 
distance  of  two  hundred  lengths 
or  at  one  nearer  to  three  hundred 
lengths — and  also  whether  the 
demonstrated  distance  of  Bumber- 
boom*s  range  was  as  much  as  three 
hundred  lengths  or  as  little  as  two 
hundred  lengths.  They  concluded 
that  it  was  better  to  use  more  force 
than  necessary  rather  than  less 
than  necessary,  and  they  accord- 
ingly loaded  a charge  a third  heav- 
ier than  that  used  before.  Further- 
more, on  the  same  principle,  they 
rammed  a double  shot  down  the 
barrel. 

“And  now  for  to  prime  her,**  said 
Zembac  Fix,  giggling  slightly. 

“Hold,**  said  Mai.  “Last  time  we 
were  too  close  to  witness  the  mo- 
ment of  ejection.  I would  witness 
this  act  and  not  have  my  vision 
clouded  with  smoke.** 

The  pothecary  nodded  and 
chuckled.  “Ferfectly  do  I under- 
stand and  take  your  meaning.  I 


126 

shall  lay  a long  powder-trail  . . . 
let  me  use  this  length  of  wood  as  a 
gently  inclined  plane.  Excellent, 
excellent;  the  powder  stays  in  place 
and  does  not  slide  off!  . . . and 
thus  and  thus  and  thus  . . . 
Ahem  hem,  I seem  to  have  used  up 
the  last  of  the  powder.” 

His  face  was  so  woebegone  that 
Malhan  was  constrained  to  laugh. 
''No  matter.  No  matter.  We  will 
make  more.  Is  not  the  recipe  con- 
tained in  the  formulary  book? 
Where  is  the  fire-stick?  Here.  Ha! 
Hear  it  sizzle!  So — 'morose  and 
barbarous'  you  have  been  termed, 
folk  of  Nor,  and  now  here  is  your 
requition  for — ” 

All  the  thunders  of  the  sky  and 
the  lightnings  thereof  burst  upon 
them  in  rolling  flashes  of  fire  and 
smoke.  The  earth  shook  like  a dy- 
ing man,  and  they  were  instantly 
thrown  upon  the  quaking  ground. 
Things  flew  screaming  over  their 
heads.  They  lay  deafened  and 
stunned  for  long  moments. 

Mallian,  presently  seeing  Zem- 
bac  Fix’s  mouth  moving,  said,  with 
a groan,  "I  cannot  hear.  I cannot 
hear.” 

"I  had  not  spoken.  Woe!  Mercy! 
Malignant  fates!  Where  is  Bum- 
berboom?” 

And  the  Crew,  now  picking 
themselves  up  from  the  dirt,  with 
shrieks  and  wails,  began  the  same 
question.  "Bumberboom?  Bumber- 
boom?  Bumberboom?**  But  a few 
fragments  of  twisted  metal  and  a 
shattered  wheel  were  all  that  re- 


FANTASY AND  SCIENCE  FICTION 

mained  of  that  great  cannon  and 
weapon  more  utile  than  a thou- 
sand swords  . . . 

Malhan  felt  a sob  shake  his 
throat.  All  his  plans,  all  his  ef- 
forts, wasted  and  shattered  in  a 
single  moment!  He  fought  for  and 
found  control.  "Age  and  disuse,” 
he  said,  "must  have  corroded  the 
barrel.  Never  mind.  We  will  some- 
how contrive  to  cast  another.” 

Zembac  Fix  agreed,  and  said 
through  his  tears,  "And  to  prepare 
more  powder.  Four  and  one-half 
measures  of  sulphur  to  thirty-one 
and  a third  of — ” 

‘Tou  err.  It  was  of  a certainty 
twenty-five  and  a fifth  of  sulfur  to 
six  and  one  eighth  of  snowy  . . . 
Or  was  it  eleven  and  one  tenth  of 
. . . We  must  consult  the  formu- 
lary.” But  of  that  sole  book  where- 
in alone  the  arcane  and  secret  art 
of  gunnery  was  delineated,  only 
one  scorched  bit  of  page  remained, 
and  on  it  was  inscribed  the  single 
word  overload.  There  was  another 
silence,  the  longest  yet,  disturbed 
only  by  the  idiotic  and  inconsol- 
able ululations  of  the  Crew. 

In  a different  voice  Mallian 
said,  "It  is  just  as  w^ell.  Clearly  the 
engine  represented  a mere  theoriz- 
ing, and,  as  we  have  plainly  seen, 
is  of  no  practical  value  whatsoever. 
What  is  perhaps  more  to  the  point, 
I observe  that  the  horse  is  unin- 
jured, and  I propose  we  mount 
him  immediately  and  proceed  by 
way  of  the  woods  to  the  northern 
and  nearest  border  of  this  land  of 


BUMBERBOOM 


127 


morose  and  barbarous  folk,  for  I 
trust  not  their  humors  at  all.” 

^'Oh,  agreed!  Agreed,  Master- 
Lord!”  declared  Zembac  Fix, 
scrambling  up  behind  him.  '‘Only 
one  question  more:  What  of  the 
erstwhile  Crew?  Should  we  try  to 
persuade  them  to  follow?” 

Mai  wheeled  tlie  horse  around. 
"I  think  not,”  he  said.  "Soon 
enough  their  bellies  will  bring 


them  down  to  where  the  pantries 
and  the  bake-ovens  of  the  Nor-folk 
are.  But  we  will  not  tarry  to  wit- 
ness this  droll  confrontation.  We 
will,  however,  think  about  it.  I am 
of  the  firm  opinion  that  they  de- 
serve one  another.” 

He  kicked  his  heels  into  the 
horse  s sides  and  Zembac  Fix  smote 
it  on  the  rump.  Thev  rode  down  the 
hill. 


COMING  NEXT  MONTH 

For  a holiday  away  from  it  all,  you  could  scarcely  do  better 
than  Killabeg  Castle,  lying  in  the  middle  of  Killabeg  Bog,  not 
far  from  the  west  coast  of  Ireland.  Bridget  Chauncey,  who  has 
inherited  the  castle  and  who  is  trying  to  convert  it  into  a vaca- 
tion retreat,  discovers  a strange  thing — a locked  room  in  the 
tower,  fitted  up  as  a laboratory-workshop  but  fantastically  con- 
taining a set  of  dolls  houses!  As  her  first  guests  arrive,  still 
stranger  things  begin  to  happen  . . • 

You  will  not  want  to  miss  JOHN  CHRISTOPHER’S  new 
novel,  THE  LITTLE  PEOPLE,  beginning  in  our  January 
issue,  on  sale  December  1. 


MARKET  PLACE 


BOOKS-MAGAZINES 


SF  Bargains.  List  free.  Werewolf  Bookshop, 
Verona  4G,  Pa. 


Locate  any  booki  Caribbean  Magic  Bookhunters, 
Box  15070-C,  Orlando,  Fla. 


AHIC  TREASUREI  Diaries,  Arts,  Letters-^'Roth- 
bella.  Beloved"'  ($5.00);  Giansincero's  Loves 
($10.00);  "Love  Lyrics,  Songs"  ($3.00)-all  THREE 
Original  Editions,  only  $5.00.  Bookways,  444-FS, 
Fort  Lee,  N.  J.  07024. 


BACK  ISSUE  SF  MAGS,  BOOKS.  FREE  CATALOG. 
Gerry  de  lo  Ree,  75  Wyckoff,  Wycoff,  N.J.  07481. 


Weird  Tales,  1949,  Three  Different,  $2.00.  Five, 
$3.00.  Keller,  704  Grand  Street,  Brooklyn,  N.Y. 
11211. 


WHY  boy  books?  For  information  write— Science 
Fiction  Circulating  Library,  Box  1308,  So.  San 
Gabriel,  California  91777, 


SPECIALISTS:  Science  Fiction,  Fantasy,  Weird 
Fiction.  Books,  Pocketbooks.  Lists  issued.  Ste* 
phen's  Book  Service,  63  Third  Avenue,  New  York, 
N.Y.  10003. 


FREE  BOOK  "990  Successful,  Little-Known  Busi- 
nesses." Work  Home!  Plymouth  935K,  Brooklyn, 
New  York  11218. 


'^HE  i^GIC  OF  THINKING  BIG."  228  pages 
dynamic  reading.  You'll  learn  the  secret  that 
makes  people  rich.  It  works.  $2.00,  postpaid. 
Standard  Specialties,  Box  4382,  San  Francisco, 
Calif.  94101. 


BOOKPLATES 


FREE  CATALOGUE— Many  beautiful  designs. 
Special  designing  too.  Address  BOOKPLATES, 
Yellow  Springs  4,  Ohio. 


HYPNOTISM 


FREE  Hypnotism,  Self-Hypnosis,  Sleep  learning 
Catalog!  Drawer  G400,  Ruidoso,  New  Mexico 
88345. 


Free  Illustrated,  Hypnotism  Catalogue.  Write 
Powers,  8721  Sunset,  Hollywood,  California 
90069. 


LEARN  WHILE  ASLEEP,  Hypnotize  with  your 
recorder,  phonograph.  Astonishing  details,  sen- 
sational catalog  free.  Sleep-learning  Research 
Association,  Box  24-FS,  Olympia,  Washington. 


PERSONAL 


English  speaking  Swedish/German  girls  seek 
penfriends/husbands.  Photoalbum  $5.00;  pro- 
spectus freel-COSMOCLUB  "SILVERTHISTLE", 
Hamburg  72/SF,  Germany. 


1,000  FASCINATING  CURIOS,  rare  gifts.  Fasci- 
noting  illustrated  catalog  100.  WORLDWIDE 
CURIO  HOUSE,  Box  5655-SS,  Minneapolis,  Minn. 
55417. 


LOSING  Hair?  Balding?  Dandruff?  Free  copy- 
righted booklet.  Dr.  Shiffer  Laboratories,  552 
Euclid  Arcade,  Cleveland,  Ohio  44115. 


Do  you  have  something  to  advertise  to  sf  readers?  Books, 
magazines,  typewriters,  telescopes,  computers,  space-drives,  or 
misc.  Use  the  PA5F  Market  Place  at  these  low,  low  rates:  $3.00 
for  minimum  of  ten  (10)  words,  plus  300  for  each  additional 
word.  Send  copy  and  remittance  to:  Adv.  Dept,,  Fantasy  and 
Science  Fiction,  347  Bast  53  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y.  10022 

128 


SERVICES-AVTHORS 


WRITERSI  Book  manuscripts  wonted:  fiction,  non- 
fiction. Free  brochures  furnish  tips  on  writing; 
reveol  how  to  become  published  author.  Write 
Exposition  Press,  Dept.  156L,  386  Pork  Avenue 
South,  New  York,  New  York  10016. 


MISCELLANEOUS 


1000  Name-Address  Labels  75^.  Bruce  Brock* 
mann,  4000  E.  18th  Street,  Vancouver,  Wash. 


UNUSUAL  new  comedy  record.  Side  1 ('Com- 
puter, Go  Home!")  is  wild  science  fiction.  Side  2 
IS  "The  Naked  Interview."  Spoken-word  mono 
12"  LP  titled  THINK  FUZZYI  postpaid,  $3.98, 
^irginia  residents  add  12^  sales  tax),  from 
''Dogbite  Record  Co.,  Dept.  ARF,  Box  532, 
Arlington,  Va.  22216. 


LIGHTER  kits  (comic  prototypes)— 2 for  $1.00. 
P.  O.  Box  17845,  Charlotte,  N.  C.  28211. 


YOUR  MARKET  PLACE 

A market  is  people — alert,  intelligent,  active  people. 

Here  you  can  reach  1 80,000  people  (averaging  three  readers  per  copy 
—60,000  paid  circulation).  Many  of  them  are  enthusiastic  hobbyists — 
collecting  books,  magazines,  stamps,  coins,  model  rockets,  etc. — actively 
interested  in  photography,  music,  astronomy,  painting,  sculpture,  elec- 
tronics. 

If  you  have  a product  or  service  of  merit,  tell  them  about  it.  The  price 
is  right:  $3.00  for  a minimum  of  ten  (10)  words,  plus  300  for  each 
additional  word.  To  keep  the  rate  this  low,  we  must  request  remittance 
with  the  order. 

Advertising  Dept.,  Fantasy  & Science  Fiction 

347  East  53  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.  10022 


129 


INDEX  TO  VOLUME  THIRTY-ONE— JULY-DECEMBER  1966 


Aldiss,  Brian  W.:  Burning 


Question Oct.  101 

Anvil,  Christopher:  Sabotage 

(novelet)  Dec.  6 

Asimov,  Isaac:  The  Key  (novel- 
et)   Oct.  5 

The  Prime  of  Life  (Verse)  . . Oct.  56 
Science:  Balancing  the  Books  July  83 
BB  Or  Not  BB,  That  Is  the 

Question  Aug.  103 

I’m  Looking  Over  A Four- 

Leaf  Clover Sept.  89 

Portrait  of  the  Writer  as  a 

Boy  Oct.  46 

Old  Man  River Nov.  105 

The  Symbol-Minded  Chem- 
ist   Dec.  83 

Isaac  Asimov:  A Bibliography  Oct.  36 

Basch,  Joan  Patricia:  Matog  . . Aug.  45 

Beagle,  Peter  S.:  Come  Lady 

Death  Aug.  114 

Bequaert,  Frank:  A Matter  of 

Organization  Aug.  91 

Bloch,  Robert:  The  Plot  Is  the 

Thing  July  26 

Brunner,  John:  The  Produc- 
tions of  Time  (novel)  1st  of 

2 parts  Aug.  4 

2nd  of  2 parts Sept.  25 

Butler,  Bill:  Letter  to  A Ty- 
rant King  (verse)  Aug.  90 

Chapman,  Vic:  Come  Back 

Elena  Oct.  65 

Cleeve,  Brian:  The  Devil  and 

Democracy  Nov.  115 

Clinton,  Ed  M.:  Heir  Apparent  Nov.  75 

CoNTosKi,  Victor:  Von  Goom’s 

Gambit  Dec.  66 


Daniell,  Sally:  An  Extraor- 
dinary Child  (novelet)  ...  Oct.  Ill 

Davidson,  Avram:  Bumberboom  Dec.  96 
DE  Camp,  L.  Sprague:  You 


Can’t  Beat  Brains Oct  32 

The  Gods  (verse)  Dec.  82 

DeCles,  Jon:  The  Picture  Win- 
dow (novelet)  Oct  84 

DE  Ford:  Miriam  Allen:  The 

Green  Snow Dec.  71 


Disch,  Thomas  M.:  Doubting 

Thomas  Dec.  43 

Goulart,  Ron:  Experiment  in 

Autobiography July  38 

Gunther,  Max:  Municipal 

Dump  Sept.  68 

Henderson,  Zenna:  Troubling 

of  the  Water  (novelet)  ....  Sept  100 

Howard,  Robert  E.:  For  the 

Love  of  Barbara  Allen  . . . Aug.  82 

Jonas,  Gerald:  The  Mystery  of 

the  Purloined  Grenouilles  . Dec.  39 

Lafferty,  R.  a.:  Narrow  Valley  Sept  77 

Laumer,  Keith:  Founder’s  Day 


(novelet)  July  5 

Lehrman,  Herb:  Revolt  of  the 

Potato  Picker July  94 

Mallette,  Mose:  The  Seven 

Wonders  of  the  Universe  . Aug.  70 
Marshall,  Ardrey:  Brain  Bank 

(novelet)  July  47 

Merril,  Judith:  Books July-Dec. 

Forges,  Arthur:  The  Mirror  . . Oct.  58 

Russ,  Joanna:  Mr.  Wilde’s  Sec- 
ond Chance Sept  65 

Scott,  Robin:  Near  Thing  ....  Aug.  99 

Spinrad,  Norman:  The  Age  of 

Invention  July  78 

Neutral  Ground Nov.  92 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis: 

Something  In  It Oct  81 

Swann,  Thomas  Burnett:  The 
Manor  of  Roses  (short 

novel)  Nov.  5 

Thomas,  Gilbert:  Luana Sept  5 

Thomas,  Theodore  L.;  Man  in 

the  Sea July  76 

Meteroid  Collision Aug.  89 

Earth  Tremor  Detection  ....  Nov.  83 

The  Martian  Atmosphere  . . . Dec.  65 

Thurber,  James:  A Friend  to 

Alexander Nov.  84 

Vance,  Jack:  The  Manse  of 

lucounu  (novelet) July  102 

Walton,  Bryce:  The  Best  Is  Yet 

To  Be Nov.  66 

Wilson,  Gahan:  Cartoons  ....  July-Dec. 


130 


CLIFTON  PADIMAN,  writer 
and  e^tor,  judge  of  the 
Book-of-the-Month  Club, 
writes : **Each  of  us  has  his 
own  special  escape-reading. 
Mine  is  science  fiction.  To  my 
mind  Fantasy  and  Science 
Fiction  regularly  supplies  the 
finest  the  field  has  to  offer 
in  the  way  of  short  fiction. 


LOUIS  ARMSTRONG 

writes:  ‘7  believe  The  Magazii 
of  Fantasy  and  Science  Fiction 
appeals  to  me  because  in  it 
one  finds  refuge  and  release 
from  everyday  life.  We  are  all 
little  children  at  heart  and 
find  comfort  in  a dream  world, 
and  these  episodes  in  the 
magazine  encourage  our  building 
castles  in  space.” 


READ  THE  MAGAZINE  OF 

FANTASY  AND 
SCIENCE  FICTION 


HUGO  GIRNSBACK, 

pioneer  in  science  fiction 
publishing,  writer  and  editor, 
writes:  ”Plus  ga  change,  plus 
c’est  la  mime  chose — is  a 
French  truism,  lamentably 
accurate  of  much  of  our 
latter  day  science  fiction.  Not 
so  in  the  cyclotronic  Magazine 
of  Fantasy  and  Science  Fiction 
which  injects  sophisticated 
isotopes,  pregnant  with 
imagination,  into  many 
of  its  best  narratives.” 

ORVILLI  PRISCOTT,  literary 
critic  and  author.  Book 
Review  Editor  for  the  New 
York  Times,  writes:  ” People 
who  think  that  their  literary 
l.Q.  is  too  high  for  them 
to  enjoy  the  Magazine  of 
Fantasy  and  Science  Fiction 
don't  know  what  they  are 
missing.  The  number  of  well- 
written,  ingenious  and  enter- 
taining stories  it  regularly 
publishes  is  astonishingly 
high.” 


Stars  of  the  entertainment  world  . . . notables  in 
the  news  . . . distinguished  authors  and  editors 
—all  owe  much  of  their  success  to  imagination.  So 
when  they  want  relaxation  or  stimulation  in  read- 
ing, they  turn  naturally  to  the  finest  works  of 
imagination;  tales  of  science  fiction.  And  they 
find  such  stories— exciting,  fast-paced  and  ex- 
ceedingly well  written-in  THE  MAGAZINE  OF 
FANTASY  AND  SCIENCE  FICTION.  Here  they 
find  current  top-notchers  such  as  Robert  Hein- 
lein,  Arthur  C.  Clarke,  Theodore  Sturgeon  and 
Isaac  Asimov;  plus  unexpected  fantasies  from 
writers  famous  in  other  fields,  such  as  Stuart 
Palmer  and  Mark  Van  Doren.  As  a bonus,  J^&SF 
has  a unique  record  of  finding  stimulating  new 
talents— such  fine  writers  as  Mildred  Clingerman, 
Richard  Matheson  and  Chad  Oliver  first  appeared 
in  these  pages.  ...  In  a word,  here  is  the  best 
of  fantasy  and  science  fiction. 


BEN  GRAUER,  radio  and 
television  outstanding 
special  events  reporter: 
*^Science  fiction,  I think, 
offers  a wonderful  education 
for  its  readers— it  extends 
their  understanding  to 
include  the  entire  cosmos.” 


at  better  newsstands  every  month 

By  subscription  $5.00  a year 

347  East  53  Street  New  York  22,  N.  Y.